This year, there was rain
Snow was only a fantasy that Sinatra sang about
On my grandfather’s cassette tape
Before the rain, my mother would make cocoa
And we would sit by the crackling warmth
Of the fireplace
Waiting for our holiday lights to blink on
This year, my boots were caked in mud
And I tracked it around the house
My parents sent me a Christmas card via email
Along with tips on how to detect frostbite
On snowdays I used to stay inside,
Curled up on the couch, with the dogs
Watching the white flakes dance in the wind
Fancying your blushed cheeks and peppermint kisses
This year, I declined candy canes
While the wind, howled
Mourning the death of our trees
And I stopped calling my mother.