12-19-2019, 10:49 AM
Sooty footprints tracked from hearth to tree,
where piled gifts stoked dreams that dwindled
at gales of drywall-muffled laughter, once sleep
finally arrived. I stumbled out my room, now stirred,
past polished floors that held the glow
of glinting firelight, following those warm
familiar voices, bleary-eyed. My feet kept warm
in the soles of my pajamas and the fir tree
broke the day beneath its messianic golden glow,
without the sun---its days now dwindled.
Outside, the land was fawn, not simply stirred,
growing carefree crystals in a dreamless sleep.
I greeted them at the kitchen table, still rubbing sleep
from my baggy eyes, and they erupted in warm
welcomes from their talks that eggnog stirred.
At the table, tradition adorned the needles on a tree
that some, as the years went by, dwindled
into brittleness then fell away while we still glow.
Gathered around the fire, our faces had a glow,
sticky with marshmallow and char. Freed of sleep,
we awaited midnight while the fire dwindled
as the final one for years to come. We set our warm
spits against the jamb when they called us to the tree
over karaoke blaring loud enough to have stirred
other children waiting for the dawn, as ardor stirred
us into a frenzied race that briefly lit an irritated glow
in yells to watch the furniture. For every fir tree
needle was a gift, with some as frayed as sleep,
the paper subtly torn at the corners, and some still warm
from being held. Piles of presents dwindled
over those nights. The family room is cleaner. Dwindled
needles only strew our floors. We're not stirred
when even embers do not breathe, for we are warm
already. Still, we string our house in lights that glow
with incandescent hopes that, while we sleep,
yesterday will be placed and found beneath the tree.
Spirits in the warm night have burned and dwindled
and the fir tree is bare on Yule. Green, like children stirred
where hearths would once glow, the land is seeking sleep.
where piled gifts stoked dreams that dwindled
at gales of drywall-muffled laughter, once sleep
finally arrived. I stumbled out my room, now stirred,
past polished floors that held the glow
of glinting firelight, following those warm
familiar voices, bleary-eyed. My feet kept warm
in the soles of my pajamas and the fir tree
broke the day beneath its messianic golden glow,
without the sun---its days now dwindled.
Outside, the land was fawn, not simply stirred,
growing carefree crystals in a dreamless sleep.
I greeted them at the kitchen table, still rubbing sleep
from my baggy eyes, and they erupted in warm
welcomes from their talks that eggnog stirred.
At the table, tradition adorned the needles on a tree
that some, as the years went by, dwindled
into brittleness then fell away while we still glow.
Gathered around the fire, our faces had a glow,
sticky with marshmallow and char. Freed of sleep,
we awaited midnight while the fire dwindled
as the final one for years to come. We set our warm
spits against the jamb when they called us to the tree
over karaoke blaring loud enough to have stirred
other children waiting for the dawn, as ardor stirred
us into a frenzied race that briefly lit an irritated glow
in yells to watch the furniture. For every fir tree
needle was a gift, with some as frayed as sleep,
the paper subtly torn at the corners, and some still warm
from being held. Piles of presents dwindled
over those nights. The family room is cleaner. Dwindled
needles only strew our floors. We're not stirred
when even embers do not breathe, for we are warm
already. Still, we string our house in lights that glow
with incandescent hopes that, while we sleep,
yesterday will be placed and found beneath the tree.
Spirits in the warm night have burned and dwindled
and the fir tree is bare on Yule. Green, like children stirred
where hearths would once glow, the land is seeking sleep.
