The heavy cold sets in
bringing snow drifts and ice
through the cracked car glass.
There are lights everywhere,
I can see them,
in the streets, in the houses, in the store fronts,
I can see them,
yet in no way feel their warmth upon me.
I can see them,
but only a glimmer that fades away as I drive.
I cannot understand them
or call them my own,
this season that belongs to the believers
yet still opens itself each year.
I cannot understand them,
with their merriness and good cheer,
celebrating fairy tales and jolly old men.
If only I could see it,
the way they do,
then perhaps it would be different.
If only I could have accepted the same things they did
at the same tender age,
then maybe I could believe in other things.
But, no, I think to myself,
that is a tempting excuse.
Everything is as it’s always been,
everything has had its same season and time,
and my choice is like all the others,
no better or worse.