Christmas Morning

Sting of cold tiles against tiny toes - Hop, shiver, skip! Down the stairs she goes With that misplaced halo Of snow-blonde hair And a chest full of glee. She almost forgets Not to land on the third step - The one that always creaks (And makes it so hard to sneak Through the dark, quiet house). On chilled tip-toes, she creeps. Around the corner, she peeks, Spying magical things. The tree glitters and glimmers Above full stockings And gift-wrapped miracles. She stares with wide eyes Until the sun stirs in the sky. Her mother finds her asleep Beneath the Christmas tree.