By Thomas Page

I count, once again,
The fifteen ornaments that
Hang from the garlands
I am the guard of
The door marked “Elves only.” Kids
Love to make for it.
The river frozen,
Labored frigid breaths escape
From chilled lungs and tongues
The trees dead jutting
Out of graying, cold hillsides.
The year is ending.
He feels sorry for
The sparrows buoyant around
His feet—Arctic chills
“It feels like” is kind
Of disingenuous ‘cause
It is that cold now

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