Cold wind howls in obscure octaves,
the notes lost among the cacophony.
Obsessed it is, the blustery wind.
Endless search.

Swiping Christmas decorations
from eave and porch, tree and bush,
attempting to hold on to mortality.
Useless endeavor.

Bitter air follows the whipping gusts,
the bite of it coats all it touches
with its frigid tenor, to ice.
Crystal sculptures.

Trees falter, statuesque trunks bend,
and fold beneath the weight and wrath
of Mother Nature’s moodiness.
Angry deity.

In my bed close to the frosty window,
freezing air drifts through warped sills
aged by time and neglect and time.
Endless loop.

Beneath the heavy blankets and quilt,
alone Christmas Eve on this wintry,
wet, windy night before the Miracle;
my pups bound up to sleep beside me.

I am blessed.