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
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