"Rudoplh the Red Nosed Reindeer,
had a very shiny nose.
And if you ever saw it
You would even say it glows"
A meticulously decorated tree,
each branch a symmetrical vision of a Christmas card.
Snow adorns the porch,
Reaching the windows;
knocking with soft thuds as it piles on.
She rests inside,
curled like the bauble on the tree.
Absorbing all the light it reflects.
Flames leap in the fireplace.
The repertoire of Fire and snow,
One softly speaks making the other crackle.
A kinship destined for distance,
For neither one can survive the other.
Purple veins on her hand,
extend into fingertips red,
or maybe the tight grasp of something dear.
Where's she looking for her rescue?
For her nose is turned inward,
and she's but a bauble without shine.
"Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright"
Is silence truly calm?
For her silence seems frighteningly certain.
Maybe that's why we need noise,
To avoid certainty.
but the mind runs miles.
But fire burns out.
And then there's sleep.
"Presents, what a beautiful sight
Don't mean a thing if you ain't holding me tight
You're all that I need
Underneath the tree"
The meticulous tree is barren at the base,
Just a single scrunched package,
behind the tree.
Singularity is often lonely.
For the present oft evades the giver that gives indiscriminately.
"Look now for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing
O rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing"
She awakens as the record player dies,
The circle unfolds into a slightly straight line.
An empty frame on her lap,
Its slightly twisted picture,
She missed the music she played,
amid the grasp of sleepless dreams.
Fire is now meek,
For snow has risen beyond the windows.
The Christmas tree seems smaller now,
As weight shifts on her feet;
And the smiling faces on the slightly bent picture,
are but a speck on the floor.
Here's a piece on the nostalgia of Christmas, for those lost and those who are yet to be found. For what's Christmas without a dollop of nostalgia?