Any one can write a card,
And fill it up with money,
But only special people,
Can make you glow like honey,
They say special words,
That they write in their cards,
But they only occur,
Like a shard,
A shard of the finest glass,
So special you can’t buy,
And if you were to ask,
They’d tell you its found way up high,
High in the mountains,
Made by the kindest of people,
They make cups, and bowls, and fountains,
They’re working on a steeple,
If you ask where they get their sand,
They’d tell you by the beach,
You have to cross a great land,
And take the grains by piece,
If you go into their workshop,
And see no heating machine,
They’d tell you too look up,
At the light shining beam,
You’d ask about the beam,
You’d wonder and inquire,
They’d say it something you’ve seen,
Atop a church spire,
You take a look outside,
And struggle to see,
Someone not very wide,
Sitting on the spire, wondering who it might be,
They seem to have a light,
Coming off of their head,
You look at light that is bright,
To this you do not dread,
It is someone you know,
As you walk in closer,
The light continues to show,
As you hear the machines faintly purr,
You look at the person,
Oh so faintly,
If too good too be true,
It is,

You.