the holidays
I feel like just around the corner Christmas lies.
As if just beyond the pumpkins and Halloween candy,
I can almost hear the jingle of those little bells
that I have stored away in boxes of decorations.
Reflections of street lights in the windows are glimpses
of Christmas trees in darkened living rooms,
awaiting their turn to be crowded around and awed at.
I wait for the whisper of snow flakes to graze my cheeks
and the solitude of white you see when you can't sleep.
I imagine the letters we'll right to each other signed Santa
and the pile of presents we couldn't afford but gave anyway,
the warm hugs and mugs of hot tea or chocolate
while the Christmas cds quietly sing of mary and straw.
I like Christmas at night with its colours and trinkets
and the morning of with its laughter and love,
yet it stays my own, I am alone in it, twirling in the white
blanketing my eyelashes in snowfall, tinting my cheeks pink.
Sometimes I'll sneak downstairs, my fingers brushing the garland,
just to sit by the Christmas tree in the wee hours,
touching bits of tinsel, the twinkle lights glowing amid the needles.
And I'll put my hands on the cold glass of the back door,
staring out at the empty night and leftover footprints in the snow
before heading back upstairs to curl up warmly in the comforter
with a small smile playing upon my lips having felt a bit of Christmas.
As if just beyond the pumpkins and Halloween candy,
I can almost hear the jingle of those little bells
that I have stored away in boxes of decorations.
Reflections of street lights in the windows are glimpses
of Christmas trees in darkened living rooms,
awaiting their turn to be crowded around and awed at.
I wait for the whisper of snow flakes to graze my cheeks
and the solitude of white you see when you can't sleep.
I imagine the letters we'll right to each other signed Santa
and the pile of presents we couldn't afford but gave anyway,
the warm hugs and mugs of hot tea or chocolate
while the Christmas cds quietly sing of mary and straw.
I like Christmas at night with its colours and trinkets
and the morning of with its laughter and love,
yet it stays my own, I am alone in it, twirling in the white
blanketing my eyelashes in snowfall, tinting my cheeks pink.
Sometimes I'll sneak downstairs, my fingers brushing the garland,
just to sit by the Christmas tree in the wee hours,
touching bits of tinsel, the twinkle lights glowing amid the needles.
And I'll put my hands on the cold glass of the back door,
staring out at the empty night and leftover footprints in the snow
before heading back upstairs to curl up warmly in the comforter
with a small smile playing upon my lips having felt a bit of Christmas.