Unfinished Christmas
It was the eve of Christmas in the shoe-like
dwelling,
A night of bygone Christmas days retelling.
But by the stroke of twelve they were all snug in
their beds,
Cradled with blankets of knitted threads.
The crackling fire left their cheeks the gentlest
bloom,
Rosier than the angel who looked upon the room.
But then the clock began to chime as if to tell,
That somewhere nearby rang a faint silver bell.
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