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images changed their shapes into instruments of tomorrow and weaved their instinctive need for joy in the passing harp colors of my dreams. Twirling sighs wound their sleepy blue around stars and carried them away to the heaven after the moon. My dreams were wooing the light beyond a skeleton mist to bring golden and warm a welcome for Santas sleigh on a childs first wintered Christmas day. We opened presents in the morning behind the cut glass of our front windows, that brought the sparkling sun through the turning winds broken sound like saintly crystal beams upon our hands. When the light would leave, the snow would run round the ground and way away the sun would wait; while black cloud forms past it by. The shadow lines of the trees were overwhelmed in the blackness, and the snow became a solid gray. But when the sun would finally flicker in my eyes, the figures of branches would slowly draw their shapes across the whiteness. The paper is pretty. The paper is pretty, isn't it Michael? I heard her say it when I was dreaming. Are you dreaming about something outside the windows Michael? I guess so. Don't you wonder what is inside all these beautiful packages? Yes. Then look inside and see what beautiful gifts Santa Claus has brought you. She was in her quilted robe and seated on the long red couch under the windows. And as she was speaking I felt like we were all on a magic carpet, that was drifting away with her voice in waiting for my fathers smile. I watched my fathers face comfortable in his golden chair, with long runing