Dear Santa,

This year I turn
older, just like last,
so could I have a few more
porcelain years to place
on my granite mantel,
Hummel talismans to time?

Also, there are some things—well, lots—
that my teachers won't tell me.
Why does the grass grow and
stars shine and people
keep killing one other
amid the miracle?
Why do we always hide?
Are you and God related?

I can't understand
how air bathes the globe.
I can't understand the words scribbled in the sky.
I can't understand how death fits so firmly
in my hip pocket each morning.
So please help me shore up my defenses;
cast my soul in iron, my hope in brick,
plaster over my fear and mortar my faith,
teach me to see the empty fleeting nature
as a flitting bird in flight,
as a fact like a flower,
as a bowl of warm soup.
Teach me to be

Yours, Truly.