'Twas the night after Christmas when all through the house
not a creature was stirring, not even the grouch
who'd opened his present, a pink paisley tie,
and declared it a dud with an audible sigh.
The kids in new sweaters had settled in bed
to dream of the gifts they had wished for instead,
and mama in the nightie I'd ordered by mail
had finished her list for the day-after sale.
When out in the alley arose such commotion,
I couldn't help ponder what caused such emotion.
Away to the closet I flew like a flash
and wondered what weapon to draw from my stash.
The five-day-old snow sucked the light from the moon,
but still I could see where debris had been strewn
when what to my soul-weary eyes did appear,
but an old homeless man with his shopping cart gear.
What a busy old man, so nimble and quick,
I thought for a moment it must be a trick.
More rapid than eagles he darted and dashed
as he sorted what we had rejected and trashed.
He uncovered mittens and scarf sets and hats
and even a sweater with sequin-eyed cats.
From the top of the pile to the floor of the bin
he found hidden treasure awaiting within.
The stuff we had tossed without one single thought
for those who had knitted or saved up and bought
soon seemed like a mountain of gold in his cart --
perhaps how we'd acted was not very smart.
'Twas then that he noticed my spying on him --
as I watched him filling his cart to the brim,
and as I attempted to hide from his sight,
he called out, "I'm sorry I gave you a fright.
I only intended to take any stuff
that you and your kin thought was not good enough --
to share with the children who shiver through storms
when thin walls are drafty and won't keep them warm."
His words, how they touched me. They couldn't be truer,
till somehow my troubles seemed smaller and fewer.
I no longer cared if our sweaters seemed tasteful
and shuddered to think of our ways oh so wasteful.
I laughed as I shouted, in spite of myself,
"Wait here while I get you more gifts from my shelf!"
And then when his cart was too full to fit more,
I felt my heart grow at the smile we each wore.
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Author Notes
Many thanks to Andy Signore for this photo of Miranda reading to Sawyer and to
Clement Moore, the poet of 'Twas the Night Before Christmas', an oft-parodied classic Christmas tale.
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