Christmas 2
Santa courtesy of Etsy, eBay, or Pinterest, I can’t remember which
Plywood Santa Each year we lift, we wire, our red-suited saint, Santa, flush to the chimney, his ho ho ho a devotional metronome, mitted wave cleaving two dimensions of snow— and for this brief season he seems half real, beaming, waiting, for the coming of his remaining girth, the one night he’s able to feel whole (for how else can he deliver?) And on Christmas morning, everything under the tree, by the fireplace, the sight of orange peel, cookie crumbs, an empty glass, is enough to spark in any lucky child retrospective dreaming—that a promise made could raise the world beyond itself: what cannot be, rendered luminous— stomach, stockings, desires, fulfilled. But then overnight there arrives the leavings, a return to limits, vacation vacated, that chimney elf mute, peeling, bound in rain, rust, the glare of mundane suns— with children well sated, off to school, and nothing touched, felt or seen consecrated.



Plywood Santa maybe sold originally by Sears and Roebuck in catalog. It was delivered by mail and inside I’d circle the things for Santa to bring. Youthful wishlist.
Happy Holidays! ☃️❄️