Rest Home Christmas

In twelve days, a Christmas.
A new breath for tired shops,
where old tradition
meets middle-aged children.

Darkened streets lit up
with the glow of rosy neon lights.
Your photograph, warm love
nestling in my colder hands.

An image of joy,
Snowblind, we laughed,
and threw rough snowballs.
Those days are gone now.

Chimneys, too small,
too modern to allow even notions
of Santa Claus.
You are gone.

But still here as the snow falls.
Inside the snug, cozy cottage of memory
we are still together.
The past will be my present.