Fancy wrap can’t hide from my eyes,
A gift that’s familiar in shape and size.
It’s the present that I adore.
They’re the toy that’s never a bore.
They’re a box of possibilities,
a forest full of Christmas trees.
A blanket of snow and garlands bright,
with a flicker of lights in the night.
They’re singing birdies just for me,
or a sailing ship on a stormy sea.
They’re autumn play and a summer breeze,
the colors of spring and buzzing bees.
With this one gift I’ll need no-more.
It’s a box of sixty-four!
There are colors for sad and more for glad.
They’re all perfect and none are bad.
What endless choices to be found.
But what is the color of sound?
What is the color of a kiss?
I’ll someday find those colors amiss.
They’re jewels in a treasure chest.
Something shared with a special guest.
We draw and print or color books,
while snuggled in our secret nooks.
I’m glad they float, though labels’ lost.
Nothing left to be peeled and tossed.
Then guides are gone for shades unknown.
But I’ll know them all, when I’m grown.
My cat swats greens under my bed.
My dog’s favorite to eat is red.
We all roll fast and giggle for more.
When they’re like bearings on the floor.
We build rainbows to the sky.
Stacked like logs to make towers high.
We lose the ones we like the best.
Then have extras of all the rest.
They’re a gift that’s always welcome.
They’re used up quick or saved by some.
Look what Harold did with just one.
My sixty-four are much more fun.
Stored neat in a box with a lid that flips,
and a hole on the back to sharpen tips.
Enough to share with all my friends,
we can draw a line that never ends.
Though mostly used sparingly,
tucked safe in a drawer, just for me.
They somehow seem to go away.
And just in time for Christmas day.