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Poem

The cold feet of winter step slowly
past December’s green leaves and red berries
hung from window sills and door jams.
Brightly wrapped in silver shooting stars
tied tight with ribbons of challis and satin bows,
hope of tomorrow lies shining beneath sparkling
scenes of jolly smiling fantasies.
Past remembrance of happier times,
dreams lie untouched,
packaged in soft tissue and gentle smiles
against the breathy whispers of shortened days
and the dark of evening reverie.

Laughing fragrance of cinnamon, tickles
past iced fingers on frozen window panes
as the cider is heated, only to be left chilling, 
untouched, beside sweet wishes in sentimental ink,
filled with ephemeral thoughts of fictitious emotions
marking the passing of another day,
as if transcending all others, that like it, passes, sunrise to sunset, 
one turn of the earth, special only because it falls at this time of year.
A gentle brush of the hand against 
the worn wood of a varnished life 
sends a sparkle of glitter spilling from the torn seal,
cascading unnoticed to the cold floor.

Silence permeates the walls of this brightly adorned space.
Only the low volume of distant voices,
murmured from the flickering screen that sits alone
atop the meticulously cleaned table in the corner,
breaks the crystal glaze and thaws the solitude.
In each object on each table is revealed the joy that could be, 
the remembered smiles, the bright brown and blue glints of 
excited anticipation that fill the frames, 
and used to fill this room.
Time now broken, hands of the clock frozen,
I stare at the brightly glowing, twinkling lights,
as my liquid sorrow fills my unfocused eyes
and I soundlessly whisper a lonely, Merry Christmas.


12/06/17

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