The fallen pine needles settle down
To the wind of another Christmas poem,
(sorry)
But it happens every time
I watch the wrapping paper torn away.

The imprint of the bucket
O'erflowing with joy
Is still on the carpet
Where the jewel tree stood proud.

I feel as if my presents were nothing
Because I'm crying at my temporary seat
Too often I've seen
That my loved ones will die.

It's the fire that keeps me going
Because it burns and
Though the logs are destroyed, like us
Their short lives gave incredible warmth.

I look around at
The joy of ruddy faces unwrapping
And I know that they don't care about their gift,
It's the people around them that really make them smile.