Waiting for Saint Nick

How the wind blows through!
There's nothing to fear,
still, I turn an ear
waiting for a clue.
Limbs scraping the roof?
But there's more to it,
I am sure of it.
No limb, but a hoof!
The snow gently twirls
as down the chimney
comes none but he.
His sack he unfurls;
it is old Saint Nick!
A sack full of gifts
in a flash he sifts,
and, then, just as quick
he's gone in a wink.
Presents left behind
of a liberal kind
forever a link-
that one Christmas night
when Santa I saw;
and, no man or law
can remove that sight.

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