We gather with love round a blinking tree
to practice our traditional exchange
of packaged presents, ripped open with glee,
and heartfelt hugs of kinship. We arrange
ourselves to see each others faces well,
to fully savor the joy our gifts bring,
when little eyeballs adorably swell
as frenzied screams of satisfaction ring.
Prismatic lights bedazzle those that view
reflections in the ornamental glass
through which the decorations brightly shine
while sentimental assurances brew
like piety throughout a moving mass
or thoughts of home, for which the wayward pine.
Are You Reading Me?
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