Santa's Whiskers
The Magic Arrival
A story of the visit of Santa Claus on Christmas Eve
The story of Nicholas
is best told
when the year's shadow
stretches long across the land
and winter's blanket
covers earth's bed
in the unmarked innocence
of morning.
It is then,
as icy fingers gently grasp December's end
and summer lies dormant beneath the snow,
that he mysteriously arrives -
without disturbing the soft powder
in the way that mankind does.
From the land of eternal white
he's gathered back
the energy spent
in last year's passing.
And now slips
into the night
to fulfill the promise
that keeps the world
forever young.
The team pulls his gilded sleigh
on polished runners,
tracing an invisible path
across the mind.
While gloved fingers flick long strands
of oiled leather messages
to the Icelandic eight
that drop him softly
at each chimney edge.
Invisibly he drops in -
unannounced and expected,
but too late to be greeted.
He shakes himself free
of the dark warm dust,
to show his belted girth clothed
in the richness
of print's first color.
As he smiles through a mass of winter white,
the lines of his face are crinkled with laughter
and etched with stories that have been
traced from the imagination of our memories -
past to present.
He turns toward the tree
and the lights dance across his face,
flicker past his hunched back
and cast shadows on the heavy weight
of the dreams he carries.
Quickly he spills forth
his bag full of packages
wrapped in nature's hues
and splashed with ribbons of delight.
There's surprise, laughter and
remembrance.
The brightness of celebration.
The warmth of acquaintance.
All dancing
to the tune of year's renewal,
as he spreads them
under the tree.
When finished
he leaves but telltale signs -
windswept footprints,
the lingering scent of pipe
and a faint echo of laughter
whispering in the breeze.
For it is his fate
never to have existed,
and forever
to be remembered.
Imbedded in literature's landscape,
his immortality
can only move quietly
from one generation to the next.
He takes hisleave
before sun peeks over the edge of morning
and night skips into tomorrow -
in that quiet moment
when the whole world is still.
Before children's eyes
open with the excitement of discovery,
and the reality of truth
spoils the pleasant fiction of belief.
His time is but a brief memory of waking
The moment between then and now,
when the mind's myst blurs the difference
between dream and reality,
imagination and truth.
Though his visit be brief,
it's continually recounted
by the young in heart
for the young in age,
and revitalized by the weary
for the unsuspecting.
You see,
it's easy to believe
in old man Santa.
Part of him is our father,
and our grandfather,
and even his father before him.
by Craig Hosterman