Little feet on the stairs
A whisper in the dark a sweet voice saying "it's Christmas", five a.m. or not.
I roll over and sigh, he snuggles into his pillow "Go back to sleep for a bit" he calls.
Six a.m. on the dot: "Daaaaaaaaaaad! Mom! I wanna open presents!"
"Earlier every year," I grumble, "he puts us on the spot."
But I wouldn't miss this for a pot of gold, or an acre of sleep: our son calling, pre-dawn, "Guess what? Guess what?" It's Christmas.
Published by Valerie Salazar
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3 Comments
Post a CommentI like the idea of measuring sleep in "an acre".
How I remember those days! Nice poem. It stirs up a lot of memories. Welcome to AC!
Aww, this was so nice. Welcome to AC!!