Through misty glass, pastures disappear beneath pure white sheets, lazily draped like a cheap conjuring trick. A Christmas we all wish for.
Try as they might, tinsel, carols and a roaring fire cannot disguise your absence; no present can replace your presence.
Tired of TV, I slip outside.
Billowing clouds of panted breath, rolling snow into giant spheres, shaping ice with broken twigs. Your scarf, unused, my final addition.
Embracing the sculpture, there are no frozen tears.
Until tomorrow, come the morning sun, and you’ll be gone again.