Christmas Sonnet
The Christmas berries hang, a gentle case
of forgotten holiday memories
that sway about amidst the frosty fog.
The smell of cinnamon baking rises,
towers above the wilted Christmas tree
complete with faded ornaments swaying,
decoration for its browning branches
covered in last minute silver glitter.
Cars arrive, escaping bitter chills despite,
Sleepless nights in crowded houses musty
with a hint of an old woman’s perfume;
husbands hide in rooms smelling of tainted
cigar, and children run until they fall
asleep waiting for the first drop of snow.
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