Silver Angels, with golden wings,                           *    
           *         wrapped in tissue, with other things.     *     *

Stockings, hand knit, by my Grandmother,
    *      *       folded neatly away, one atop the other.
        *

Favorite ornaments, growing old and brittle,                         *   *
                    that were hung, each year, when I was little.  *       *

A faded Nutcracker, that by the door, stood guard.
   *    *          A lighted Santa, that would always grace our yard.
     *

All, left alone, in the attic this year.                              *   *
                   To look upon them, only brings dry tears.  *    *

The very act, just...takes away my breath.
  *     *         There is no joy.  In fact, there's nothing left.
       *

There will be no twinkle lights on the mantle.                      *  *
                    No evergreens, fragrant and ornamental.   *    *

The radio will be silent, the baking oven cold.
  *   *           No Holiday spirit, in my heart can I hold.
    *

Just this deep, defeated feel.                                           *   *
                   A sadness that invaded, refusing to heal.   *   *

Grandchildren will call, their excitement clear.
   *    *                   In their hearts, they hold the Holiday cheer.
      *

I'll have my mask, firmly in place.                                             *   *
                   I'll answer and question them all, with false grace.  *      *

Then as I hang up the phone on the wall,
      *          I'll turn away, as though nothing happened at all.
   *

Seeing these things, listed here, in print.                                *   *
                   Just leaves me numb.  No emotions were spent.   *    *

So, I will continue, in this life that I live.
   *     *        Like a dried Christmas tree, with nothing left to give.