I remember Christmas
my mother used to have
when she was just a little girl
and I not yet a lad
the year was nineteen twenty one
the snow was bright and cold
the burning wood was smoky warm
or so the story told
father's pease hung in the pot
black iron fireplace hook above
old farmhouse filled with children
old family filled with love
each child treasured their present
the only one they got
no one felt the absence
of all things that were not
as the day went on the home
filled with the summer smell
of the single orange each child received
and treasured oh so well
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