by Deborah Lutz
Copyright 2002
because you are six
and -
where are mom's presents?
you ask,
but don't understand
and so i pretend to
i tell you that
my gifts are brought to
grandma's house - so i won't peek
and drop the
penguins-fishing, paper-bound
tights
into my stocking
where, at the toe
there lies a lump
of gold
you took from your treasure box
digging deep
so i'd have something
how much those things,
unwrapped
mean so much
and meant so well
the words,
unsaid and unheard
at the toe of
what we feel,
intentions made real
or a play-necklace
into a stocking,
unspoken,
mends all the parts of me
imperfect
or broken
so sweet
the way you
care for me, really
and these six years
that we have been given
i see them
and all their beauty
love, wrapped ribbon-like
'round you and me
my child-gift
when you allow me to
open
i know i am peeking
through the eyes of god
and get to see
like presents opened early
your soul,
which is more than enough
and though you don't understand
i will pretend to