Nothing in my stocking,
Not a trinket nor a thoughtful bauble.
Just dust and memories
Reducing my pace to a hobble.
The deft, skillful, seamstress’s hands—
Confused and enfeebled now—
Made their mark long long ago.
A magic I couldn’t disavow.
Kindly fill my stocking.
Just a silly doodad or helpful tool.
Something to raise my spirits
When there is nothing merry or bright.
A dingle-dangle, no matter how small,
Might sweeten the herald angels’ call.
