The unilluminated Christmas lights
Shine with reflected glory in the trees
While moonshine, which should brighten all our nights,
Hides in the clouds and shows herself a tease.
The streetlamps flicker in and out, outlining
The fragile traceries of dying hedges,
And leafless boughs, with their own weight reclining,
Seem to be made of nothing else but edges.
What can be seen of mulch down on the ground
Seems almost wholly finished with converting
Into new soil, while all the ice around
Reflects the Christmas light as off a curtain
Inside a house, where children laughed and tore
Into their presents, some long time before.
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