There is no tree bedecked with lights
to push away the coldest nights
There is no ornament in your name to hang
There are no bells, their music to clang
There will be no feast to honor the sun
There will be no hours of festive fun
There will be dust and ashes upon my hearth
With saddened heart absent, a disguise worn of mirth
As the tears refrain down memory lane
with whispers of the joy that remains
etched on the holiday with stains of your haint
re-purposing, recycling you into glorious saint.
I’ll stare out the window to witness the world sing
As I dread your fair haunting that this season brings.