The fire hisses, flickering,
as it lay encaged by a thick black sheath of iron.
Cloth stockings droop down− bare and bereaved.
Pure, white snow is drifting
down from the blank upper atmosphere.
The gray and white dog routinely scampers
around searching for scraps of food.
Family converses and unnecessary
gifts are exchanged.
And there I sit alone.
Under the absurdity
of the green leaves of the mistletoe.
Waiting.
