Christmas Morning

The stairs are wrapped with holly and with twine;

I paddle from my room, eyes glued with sleep.

Mom’s flipping sausage: “Morning! about time.”

The biscuits are halfway done. Dad hovers

beside the George Foreman grill, watching dew

condense and drip from the glass that covers

the unfrozen hashbrowns. The smell of pine

branches drift to my nose; boxes of red

await the time when our full bellies have dined

on biscuits and gravy and hashbrowns too

and we gather: a circle of sweatpants

on leather couches by the fireplace

and I’m the Santa, passing out presents

to Mom and Dad, Hannah, Jordan, and Jen.

I like this job. I bought almost nothing

but am given all and give all away.

I think I smell the myrrh someone misplaced.

I lay it by the fire. Christ is here to stay.