I get sent to bed early
on Christmas Eve but do not sleep—
I suspect they’re lying.
There’s an oaken babydoll cradle
hidden, unwrapped in my parents’ closet,
obviously my gift, obviously crafted
by my father the carpenter,
obviously not from Santa
nor made by elves.
But it seems important
to play along so I settle
into a long winter’s nap
Where I dream of a doll
in a white dress and bonnet
which I find under the tree
early the next morning.
(Another collaboration with my friends at Mebane Ridge after I read several holiday poems.)
Bartholomew Barker, Poet 
