In our house, chocolate is memory,
It’s currency, and treat.
It’s more than just confectionery,
Or something sweet to eat.

It’s the orange in the stocking,
And the coins down at the heel.
It’s the time on Christmas morning
When the dreaming becomes real.

It’s trading out my hazel whirls
For all your orange creams.
Carols on the radio,
And bursting at the seams.

It’s the bunny in the garden
In the early morning dawn.
It’s magic happening out of sight
When the curtains are still drawn.

It’s collapsing in an armchair,
A pause to end the week.
Recharging with a glass of wine,
No need to rush or speak.

It’s the little milky buttons
That relatives may bring
For tiny, eager, reaching hands,
Wanting everything.

It’s not (just) the taste and smell of it,
It’s everything it does.
All these moments, what they mean,
It’s joy, it’s rest, it’s love.

Originally shared in March 2025, written to the brief of writing a poem about chocolate.