I always fail to tell her
How wonderful she makes the house look
At Christmastime
It's not really her vision
As nearly all the decorations
Were gifts
From me and her mom and my mom
And me and me and me
Still, she takes the material she's been bestowed
And knits a seasonal quilt
Around our home
Each room its own patch
With its own attendant spirit and feelings
--The warmth of the living room,
The whimsy of the basement--
Of course, I see it all year round
This power she has
To work with what's she's been given
No matter how difficult, distasteful, or ill-fitting
And make it into something magical
And I always fail to tell her that too
But this Christmas, as I write
Surrounded by the results of her alchemy
I believe I'll let her know
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