Dear Paige,

Today we sat down on the couch

And we began to dream

Of all the things you'd ask for

Your eyes began to gleam.

And then there came THE question,
The hardest of them all:
"Mommy, is Santa real,
or just some guy at the mall?"



You're still too young to ask me this;
At eight, you should still believe
In every whimsey, wish and want
Your wildest dreams conceive.
Your life should be a piggy bank
Of candy, fun and kisses,
The day will come when you will need
That bank of "come true wishes."



If faith had magic powers, Paige,
I'd break it's silly spell,
But if you'll crawl up on my lap
And listen very well...
I'll tell you by the gentle breeze
That whispers from above
That I believe in Santa Claus,
For Santa Claus is love.



I haven't seen old Santa, Paige,
I doubt I ever will.
For he is like the welcome wind
That dashes down the hill.
But somethings things you cannot see
Are felt with greater force,
And though I cannot catch the wind,
I track its daily course.



I haven't seen old Santa, Paige,
And yet I dare to say
That every time I see a child
Delight in Christmas day,
And every time I see a grin
Erase an old man's wrinkle,
The spark that glows within his eye
Must surely be Santa's twinkle.



When one bad year I didn't have
The cash for Christmas toys,
It was somehow devlievered and
Our home was filled with Christmas joy.
And if you want MY honest guess,
what put those presents there
Was indeed Santa Claus and nothing less.



When some fine day you have a child
In years, as they are not yet born,
You'll see them search a tinseled tree
And leave the wrappings torn;
And then you'll see their eyes light up
Like Christmas stars above
And you'll believe in Santa Claus,
For Santa Claus is LOVE.