'Tis the week before Christmas
and all through the house
not a creature was stirring
but one bespectacled mouse
who came down from the attic
proclaiming himself free, and
now sits atop the Frasier Fir tree.

Stockings, draped over wing-backed chair
not yet hung on the white mantle with care.
Few days remain as the holiday draws near
questioning if St. Nicholas will ever get here.
Now-grown child no longer in the nest, snug
with visions of sugar-plums cutting a rug.
Though I wear no 'kerchief, he does don a cap.
For each, it is rare to get a long winter's nap.

Suddenly, from the nightstand
there arises such a clatter
Tearing open the covers
(but leaving down the sash)
I stumble out of bed
clearly knowing what‘s the matter.
Away to the snooze button
my fingers fly in a flash.

Its fullness coming, eight more days to go
the waxing moon over no new-fallen snow
gives little lustre to gray objects below.
So, down the steep stairs, I slowly descend
with still-sleepy eyes, praying not to end up on end.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear
but the white-lighted tree decorated with
a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
It could be no other than beloved St. Nick.

I sit by the still fireplace, with chimney intact
ponder how Santa makes it down with his pack.
Then, from my computer I hear a loud ping.
With eye-light twinkle, I ignore the rude thing
brew myself a warm cup of Earl Grey tea.
Take a few minutes more, especially for me.
Heart, in delight, starts to fill up with glee
all the while, sadly, both heart and mind know
’t’will be yet another year of wasted mistletoe.

More rapid than coursers, nay, eagles the work-day, it came
So, I grumble and shout, and call out a few names.
The bags that I’m getting, not filled up with toys,
come from long hours at work frequently toiled.
They don’t sit quietly under the tree but inhabit my face
and act as if they owned the whole visage place
eliciting shouts to the top of the porch, the wall
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
I rush back upstairs, wash face, brush teeth
and prepare for this new day and people to me.
knowing another long day over work will spread
I speak not a word, but head straight there, instead.

Then, you can hear me exclaim, ere I drive away,
"Blessed Season to all, and to all a good-day."