There is a silken veil of fog only

darkness knows about

and perhaps the reflective cloud-sky.

darkness, the sky, and the one light left on by a distracted hand

shining from the garage eve onto a circle-patch of damp lawn

and me.

the air is oddly warm 

but not unwelcome; Christmas morning.

the furnace hums irregular, keeping the one lone, slumbering guest deep in down-covered dreams

the boys arrive; sometime in the daylight then 

Christmas will begin.

but now, 5am quiet house, furnace shhhhh, fireplace crackle

and me, under this blanket

pen in hand


in love.