i sit here alone
in a quiet house
already a-slumber
staring out into the
Christmas-tide darkness
wondering
as usual
how many years
it will take
for our
paths to intersect
and run
the same direction
it’s not pretty
being green
and it ain’t easy
being grey —
i hope you don’t
mind the
colloquialism —
i imagine
you don’t like
this either
or maybe you
do
maybe you
have the attitude
i’m missing
at the moment
that all is beautiful
in time
perhaps we’ll
find this again
in a hundred years
and say
look how silly
you were
so young
but so old
so let it be
for tonight
the lamplight
outside my window
is glowing
golden.
