WINNER

The unclothed hedges, the emptied fields,
The pungent spices, the burning coals,
The sooty chimney, clove-scented candles,
The porcupine trees, the silken shawls.
The nutcracker and the nuts that it yields,
Observed by mice through their private mouseholes,
The closed window that, from the cold, us shields,
The doors that opens to the poorest of proles.

The circular wreath, with its red berries, beckons,
Hung like a stocking upon the door,
Like a stocking filled with chocolate and coins.
All have been good this year, Santa Claus reckons,
This winter, I think, all deserve to get more
Of that which, every year, us in unity joins.