January Grey Ghost

The curb is lined with skeletons of pine. Wrapped in plastic left behind the

line. Where last week's glitter met the morning frost. The magic didn't

leave, it just got lost. The hooks are empty on the

living room wall. And silence is the loudest thing in the hall.

Oh, the January grey is a heavy kind of ghost. It lingers in

the places that we used to love the most. The fairy lights are tangled in

a cardboard box below. And the sun gives up by four o'clock.

No more the Christmas glow. It's a long cold walk through a