Bells of Christmas Past

On Christmas Eve night, The only sound Within our house Comes from its wooden frame, Creaking And settling Like three footsteps Carefully Stepping From the upstairs To downstairs Then nothing more, An exhausted ghost Lifted From the hot air Of the furnace That begins to blow Through the opened vents On the wooden floors. But then, From the living room Down the hall, A tiny bell Rings Rings Rings. I go to see. From under the Christmas tree, Lit With twinkling lights Like the skyline of a city Towering upon a bay at night, The presents Underneath Wrapped And stacked In all the colors, Rippling Like a watery reflection, I see Our cat With his snowy white paw, Much like a miniature mitten, Batting the air, Back and forth, Above his head, Jiggling A little bell That fell From the top of the tree, Snagged by the tree’s scraggly arm Outstretched At the hem of its billowing skirt, Pulsating a tiny Ting Ting Ting Through all the rooms Throughout our house In the pendulum eyes Of that curious cat, Holy echoes From all my Christmas’ past.