Cold
stone
under
her worn shoes
as she trudges through
falling snow this dark Christmas night.

She
makes
her way,
the shelter
offering warm food,
a place to sit out of the cold.

She
looks
up to
see a small
child walking past the
window. She frowns, tries to recall

a
time
dimly
from her past.
Distant Christmases,
herself at the center, presents,

trees,
lights,
and a
mother, years
gone, buried, nearly
forgotten, just like her own life.

She
looks
down at
her raw, red
hands, the cast off gloves
gleaned from some refuse bin in need

of
thread,
needle,
some tender
care, like her own life.
She looks up to find the girl is
gone, fading into
memory.
Like her
own
life

Craig Allen
© December 2009

12/23/2009

Author's Note: This poem has been published in The Fib Review #6, an online journal for Fibonacci poetry. http://www.musepiepress.com/fibreview/intro.html

Posted on 11/08/2011
Copyright © 2025 Craig Allen