The city had withdrawn into itself…
from “Christmas Trees (A Christmas Circular Letter)”, by Robert Frost
The barrens blaze by, distant from a banding bunch,
an operator of an auto ode,
whom wants the wheels to wind to a halt at home,
whose dwelling holds the heat from his convening heritage,
who conveys a final fruit of handiwork before ceasing a shift.
Harold the holidays in each exhaustion has taken out,
tire such targets of strength, which coworkers carol, “Christmas break.”
Time shuffles through its snare of sheets, until
the glacier of a geezer thaws out of its trance,
takes to his slippers, takes to a dresser (assisting his spectacles),
takes a tiny torch to a candle, and takes the taxed light to his bookcase.
His fingers slip over each spine, his fingers seek one exception
from among each tattered tome, to arrive at a volume
entitled, Present Tense.
Behind the tanglement of twigs, a pewter puff hides
the height of the horizon. Still, the street sings in solo swells.
Right Rig, honor for Heimdall, give the guardian of Gjallarhorn a gift,
I set my sheet in sync with the South and sing, “success”,
yet singe on my skin to start, survival supersedes.
The miracle from a maiden I mate, how I have a house,
and went to work, week for week, pleased to be payed for a permanent post,
the year I yearned for most, what gratefulness extends
in the embrace of coats and gloves–a greatly gang
for which I labor, gladly, well watchful ghost.