This is for the homes of the alones
The lost and lonely and bereft
Still mourning in their Sunday best
Or lounging in their worst attire
Whatever
Details aren’t as important as simply being solo
Hermits and rustics
The quirky and the mean
Fearful or fearsome
Many paths lead to this singularity
Homes where festive décor becomes a minimalist vestige
And the former glory remains in boxes in the dark
In the homes of the alones
Christmas creeps in and out of view
Never quite hitting the high notes
Or shining as brightly as those lost years
When doors banged and music poured down the stairs
Into a swirl of anticipatory frenzy
Lives twirling in choreographed ritual
So that each golden moment glowed with the magic collectively conjured
Not like now
When there is no more Christmas morning creep
When the few gifts under the miniature tree
Hold no mystery
And no matter where you go for Christmas Dinner
The silence of the morning
Flattens the rest of the day
David Trudel © 2012
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