Untitled (The Christmases Mother Made)

You can talk about your Christmas in the gay and festive town,

With its crowds of Christmas strollers promenading up and down;

With its lavish decorations, and its music sung and played,

But the Christmas to my notion was the kind that mother made.

As to mother’s bread and doughnuts I shall simply pass them by,

Not a word about her cookies of her golden pumpkin pie;

Not a line about her puddings or hard jams or marmalade,

But a volume in the praises of the Christmases she made.

O, the presents they were simple and devoid of tinsel bright,

And were fashioned by her fingers while we calmly slept at night,

And the stories that she told us they were true as true could be

‘Cause she heard her mother tell them Christmas times the same as we.

I won’t speak about her crullers tho’ they tasted super fine,

Nor the apple-jack that melted in your throat like luscious wine;

But the place where mother fitted, leaving others in the shade,

Was the genuine old-fashioned bang-up Christmases she made.

Sept. 30, ‘08

Roxanna Andrews Cone