I look for you in the bustle of changing seasons--
the promise of eternal life is stashed
in evergreen front-door wreaths,
but outside dims quiet. The winds,
without leaves to stand in their way,
whip and slap winter chill straight to my bones.
old piano melodies whisper the familiar
beat of tradition. Memories and expectations
of what should be the same, and what
should always be, drive my search
for you this season. Choppers on mute
race packs of starving bloodhounds
with their mouths sewn shut.
I am determined to find you.
To sneak up behind you in white dusk
and with blindfolds for hands,
and eyes tattooed red, I'll growl,
Surprise. Merry Christmas.