For The Holidays

No tree fills the house
with the scent of fir, or
carpets the floor with
fallen needles.

No lights hang from
the eaves or the holly bushes.

The Messiah has been played, once
but no others; they may or may not
in the next couple days.

My love and I are both off work
the day before and the day itself;
mom asked what we have planned,
and she said “Oh, read, eat,
be quiet at home,” and then
she smiled and winked at me.

The forecast calls
for sunny and cold,
a perfect Texas Christmas.

We will not go out, nor
stay up late on
New Year’s Eve, and
the next day I will go
hunting up in Quanah.

Now, it is quiet and
the sky is grey, waiting.
Critters strewn about
the bed and couch,
paws cover faces.
Wind tossed Oleander
scratches at the window.

Uncle Fran died two days ago,
as so many do this time of year.

Perhaps, in my fiftieth year
I have caught a whiff
of that melancholy.