He lays there; anxious yearning.
Years of waiting for the gift.
Will it be there in the morning?
Day is where his hopes now drift.
Golden yellow, his thoughts shine through.
He waits there for the sun to rise.
The gift he yearns is nothing new.
Endless hope will blind his eyes.
Morning creeps; come in slowly.
Rays of light sneak up his bed.
It will be there, he knows surely.
Anxiously, he pops up his head.
Down the stairs, he sees the tree.
The big box first, he tears apart.
But his gift, he fails to see;
Disappointment fills his heart.
The gift his hands will never hold,
But losing it is not his fear.
Yet his hope will not grow old,
Because there’s always next year.