Christmas Dues

A ghostly thought

climbs up

the snow-capped rooftop

of a nearby building

leaving behind an empty corner

of my absent mind

for an obligatory, back-in-time journey.

Inside, my spine shivers,

my temples burn with silent fever,

my palms face the fiery fireplace

in a defensive gesture

which allows my eyes

to follow and emulate

the dancing flames

reflected on the white ceiling.

Surrounded

by lighting and tinsel I am,

in your sudden embrace,

I fell, confronted with my own longings

holding my breath still,

hearing sweet names whispered in my ear.

You see, I never feel ready

for such a harvest of bliss! Standing

between the fire and the fir-tree

I get almost knocked off my feet.

You and your thousand ways 

to make up for the snows' coldness,

so that we can peacefully sit 

for minutes on end

on the quiet warmth of a mistletoe branch

- speechless in winter -

feeling in rhymes or in blank verse

our matching stockings,

forgotten by ageing traditions,

resting their soft emptiness together

like a recently-opened present.

Years ago, one could almost count

the plastered indifference

of my chest around Christmas,

hear it out,

while rocking the bountiful bells

or wiping the old memory drops

rolling down an immaculate angel 

or some festive ornament figures.

I used to run out of carols and greetings

so often, back in the day, 

collected yet so dismissive,

a little girl grown into a woman

willing and able to stay for the winter

until  being taken for granted

and having her debts paid.