Snow seems nice-
fluffy, gentle as it compresses beneath
or into
projectiles meant for the mean kid down the street--
until you're cleaning up mud
you tracked in
from new boots you got for Christmas
You knew they'd get dirty sometime
but still
Trees seem like a grand idea-
thistled beauties that smell of new car fresheners,
but better
and look like an angel might
land right on them
as they light up the front lawn,
through the window--
until you're picking up individual pine needles
no vacuum seems to want
or blamed for the mess because
you're the one who wanted a tree
Christmas seemed a worthwhile holiday-
lively, joyous in its array
reminiscent in its song--
until your Grandmother died right before
until you found out Santa wasn't real
