The marks on the lawn make it perfectly clear,
over night we'd been visited by eight tiny reindeer.
Etched in the snow was a singular track,
the sign of a man who was dragging a sack.
The snow on the roof was also disheveled.
The sidewalk unused though recently shoveled.
Sooty boot prints lead right up to the tree,
where presents await for the kids and for me
The cookies set out on the night before,
are now just crumbs that litter the floor.
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You may not believe me, I find it quite queer,
but the same thing has happened, year after year.
The Post Bulletin publishes poetry by local and area writers every Tuesday. Send poems to life@postbulletin.com with the subject line "Poetry submission."
