It is silent, all the children
waiting expectantly, tucked into bed
whereas I, here, a cat and my thoughts
let myself fall lazily into yesteryear
of tinsel and useless gifts, I feel no need
as the music of the street fades away
and the feeling of nothing returns
what a quiet moment this is - reflective,
unhurried, unfettered by
circumstances or memory
just a crack in time
to fall through backward
and hope that my head finds a soft
pillow of earth beyond.
To rest myself, is all I ask
strewn bottles provide no comfort
no respite.
Is this the meaning of the season?
when even the snow refuses to fall
and blanket the ugliness under
pure white, on this,
yet another Christmas eve.
