Poinsettias bedeck the evening news,
And lights shine bright on houses 'cross the way.
And here I sit, detatched, and sing the blues.
I disagree with Scrooge -- I'll not begrudge.
To every Who in Whoville, tall and small:
"Well-roast, your Beast, and tasty-sweet, your fudge!"
And yet, despite the jollity, and all...
I sigh. I think how alien it feels:
Strange creatures, seen as through a telescope.
While voices sing and bells ring out their peals,
I rap on my heart's door, and ask for Hope.
"Is she at home?" I ask. "She once lived here..."
But Thought's not sure: "...She might be back, New Year."
[Cross-posted to capriuni]