Your poem weaves memories so tenderly—frost-kissed paper, origami’s ghost, reindeer stamp—all threads stitched from childhood’s quiet revolt. The imperfection here is poetry; even fragile paper holds December’s hands, proud and still. Beautiful, aching truth in scrap’s embrace.

Scissors kiss the paper’s edge—
snowflakes lace the windows red.
Each cut, a breath from childhood’s frost,
where angels wear origami’s ghost.

Stickers cling like promises to keep,
glue hums hymns too sweet to reap.
A reindeer stamps its velvet track—
it treads the dusk, then melts back.

In scrap the year wears brittle years,
its memories blooming here.
Not perfect forms, but hearts undone—
December’s hands, there, still and done.