Greenish tints caught in my hands shred

Quickly; fingers scraping ahead

The wrapping, once shining, remains rusty

Like nails of red-brown odor that’s musty

My fingers pull upward the rectangular lid

Unveiling secrets once hid

Clothes, neatly piled, visibly show

Their texture is of cotton; smooth like snow

I glance at the fir tree; branches sticking out

Dark green tufts sheeted through its route

Ornaments chime dimly, swinging back and forth

Above the tree is a gold-coated star; pointing upwards north

Snow glows through the streets, stretching and frozen

Wind blows at the clear, black road it chosen

My body rises, feet tread

Towards the tanned sofa that spread

My eyes shift towards the cylinder case

Sitting beside the sofa; on a small table space

A Nativity scene; filled with hay

Flooring where the Lord’s son lay

I continue watching through the window glass

Eyes trained on the beautiful, cloud-colored mass