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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=463819" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Remembering Christmas</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A small dark plane is parked outside the complex.<br>A span of wings hangs over the glistening snow.<br>On the fuselage Fox News or CNN or something.<br>Crewmen mill about arm-flapping against the cold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The night is crossed and looped with beams and cables<br>Lense men decide the best place to pitch the cameras<br>Candles burn tall at a table decked with holly-boughs.<br>It has stopped snowing. All is merry and bright.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There on the terrace sits Mrs. Claus herself<br>Mittened, beribboned, wrapped in a fur-lined parka<br>The slightly-embarrassed focus of so much attention, <br>But growing momently more and more at home.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She is talking to an interviewer-no, a whole panel of them<br>Having decided-why not-in favor of mikes<br>Of which six whistle and crackle in an arc before her<br>Beside a platter of just-baked Christmas goodies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Into the microphone she says 'Yes, I pack the gifts.'<br>Wrapping each in plasticene or muslin.<br>Yes, she packs the Mister's lunch and dinner<br>It's a long way, all around the world, no? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Including, yes, the beers-not too many or too few<br>To keep the chill off and make the travelling light<br>And steel him for that intercontinental flight<br>Dark and tumultuous, over the Bering Strait.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes, she adores the deer, laying in for each<br>An extra measure of hay, some carrots, persimmons<br>Before they fly, wetly kissing each ones nose, <br>Wishing the great creatures safe haven.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They lower their heads, snort, and paw the <br>Ground sheepishly, mindful of her concern<br>Then she smiles, waves, draws her flannels about her<br>As the caravan begins to race, the whip crack, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">With a 'hey ho my hearties, ' over the frozen turf, <br>Faster and faster, much like a 747, faster<br>Until suddenly airborn, gone and flying past the moon, <br>leaving her alone in the shadowy stillness.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'No, ' she never...</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Morgan+Michaels">Morgan Michaels</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=463819" data-title="Remembering Christmas de Morgan Michaels" data-description="A small dark plane is parked outside the complex.
A span of wings hangs over the glistening snow.
On the fuselage Fox News or CNN or something.
Crewmen mill about arm-flapping against the cold.

The night is crossed and looped with beams and cable..."></div>
</div>
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