It's the night before
Christmas,
all is quiet and still,
a knock on my door
harsh as winter's chill.

No one is really there
I know,
just wind-blown leaves,
borne on icy air
with nowhere to go.

I look at the door
handle,
***** and rusty brown,
like a window decor,
stopping no thief or vandal.

There's room here somewhere
I know,
for wind-blown leaves,
borne on icy air,
with nowhere to go.