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Christmas
Greenish tints caught in my hands shred
Quickly; fingers scraping ahead
The wrapping, once shining, remains rusty
Like nails of red-brown odor that’s musty
My fingers pull upward the rectangular lid
Unveiling secrets once hid
Clothes, neatly piled, visibly show
Their texture is of cotton; smooth like snow
I glance at the fir tree; branches sticking out
Dark green tufts sheeted through its route
Ornaments chime dimly, swinging back and forth
Above the tree is a gold-coated star; pointing upwards north
Snow glows through the streets, stretching and frozen
Wind blows at the clear, black road it chosen
My body rises, feet tread
Towards the tanned sofa that spread
My eyes shift towards the cylinder case
Sitting beside the sofa; on a small table space
A Nativity scene; filled with hay
Flooring where the Lord’s son lay
I continue watching through the window glass
Eyes trained on the beautiful, cloud-colored mass
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