**** brown grass
covers my yard,
saddled
by dead gray skies
that **** rain
on my holiday.

Where is Christmas?
Will it come this year?

I fervently remember
swirls of snow
everywhere, a silent,
peaceful, white world
in which I could think.
There’s less now, each year.

My mother no longer bakes
those delicious peanut butter
cookies with the Hershey kiss
in the middle.

I can’t even remember
their smell,
nor the heat of the oven
to be my blanket
after I walk inside.

Is Christmas coming this year?

I don’t see the smiles
of holiday cheer,
just the grimace
of old men,
tired of buying presents
and putting up decorations.

Maybe it’s my eyes,
but I'm not sure Christmas
will come this year.