Maggie Koger

I’d roll up one of my baby booties
and stuff it deep into a brand new
cotton sock and hang them both
to wait for Santa’s midnight call
long past our evening supper-bowl
of creamy chowder topped with butter
churned by hand from a Jersey’s milk
her creamy gift filling us to nourish
our bodies as in — "Thy will be done."
A child well-fed on a sacred night ate
biscuits heaped with peach preserves
sweets to shimmy up sugar-plum
dreams of nights before Christmas
when all were to bed and Santa came
to fill our stockings, since Baby Jesus
he loved all the children of the world.
And when I rose and dumped my stocking
candy, nuts and all, I’d find my tiny bootie
full of golden foil-wrapped chocolate coins.
I savored fortune rich as any wise-man’s
when mother held both sock and bootie
side by side and swept me close
and said, "My how you’ve grown."