Boxing Day

Alone seeps in through frosted window panes
when Christmas Day has melted into slush,
slid halfway down the drive then froze again,
the night not half as silent as the hush
of hearts that should be warmer than the coals
still buried in the ashes of the wood
that burned as brightly as our childish souls
when we unwrapped our presents.  When we stood
inside September’s kiss of final heat
and thought that it was spring, we both were fooled.
There comes a time when seasons don’t repeat.
Decembers are the passions which have cooled.
One wind that whispers now: “I should have known,”
seeps in through frosted window panes, alone.

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