The empty yard on the way home
that three weeks ago sold Douglas Firs
is dark and closed,
scrubbed and hosed,
but there on the pavement is the faintest whiff of pine,
and the most Januaryish of confetti,
green matchsticks for a Christmas bride.
Twelfth Night tonight, but you would not know it,
with twinkling across thresholds and
trees still proud in windows and
lopsided late calls for Santa to stop here.
This flagrant disregard for superstition bothers me,
like cracked mirrors on their living room walls, or
ladders in their doorways.
The homeless man who sits on the bench says
"It's going to get worse you know" and I say
"You mean the weather?" and he laughs, a wild laugh,
and doesn't think to answer any other way.
I pass more unwanted decorations,
tired plastic snowmen waving me home,
driveways clogged with bags of rubbish,
bloated pink bellies threatening to
spew gold paper and ribbons upon the needles.
Twelfth Night tonight, bin collection tomorrow.