It's a rainy evening in January,
And Dexys Midnight Runners
Are flirting with Eileen.
There's fettuccine bubbling away
Over the blue flames,
And I miss you.

It's the kind of night that needs
Tea,
And spicy food,
And whiskery kisses.
I made steam scented with strong spices and herbs
Curl around the kitchen,
And weave around me dancing
To help keep me from noticing
You aren't here.

But you aren't here.

You don't need me to feel weak,
To feel like you can love me,
And I don't need to feel like I can't protect myself
In order to feel protected by you.

I like CDs because they feel more real,
And I like you,
Because you feel more real.

You slept next to me last night,
And your soft breath in my ear
Made sleeping
Less terrifying.
I'm trying to drown out the lack of your voice
With old music,
But it isn't working
Because you love old music.
I woke up and you were gone,
Waking up is a colorful explosion
Of soft kisses and and gentle
Touches with you,

But you aren't here.

~

the mercury is falling brisk,
large flakes of snow are drifting fast,
her blanket heavy on the limb,
as ice paints frosting on the glass.
winter’s tapestry is forming,
street lamp’s light reflecting;
strands of pearl stretch out, adorning,
as fir transformed by snow,
become a white angelic host.
a fire burns brightly in the square,
hands and cheeks find warming here;
sound of bells festoons the evening,
children dance along in time;
’round a village Christmas tree,
bedecked with lights, the smell of pine,
a whistle heralding the train’s arrival,
a burst of steam floats on the breeze;
her clacking wheels grind to a halt,
and like treasure’s journey from afar,
one by one, her most precious cargo
laden down with parcels, disembark.
excited voice, in joyous welcome,
warmest hugs, wet kiss on cheek;
familiar sound of families greeting,
newborn babe grandparent meets.
here my heart on Christmas Eve,
to us though distant memory;
for snow globe wishes,
and angelic kisses,
each as magical as these,
a hopeful prayer, a song for peace,
on earth for all who still can sing
who long... who dream,
of Christmas yesteryear;
though even if a different scene,
it's ember’s spark...
it's wistful call...
this is Christmas present,
its gift love-scribed,
on ev'ry tender heart!

~

*post script.

as Christmas arrives for you and
your family, may you be present,
reflecting, not on what is missing,
but on the joys of all that is not!

Merry Christmas to each of you.
who still dream!