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The air it breathes of candles burned,
Of crimson gold and tinselled dew,
Where’er I walk the scent it soothes
My crystal flakes like snow unturned.
We sit as five and promptly feast
On Christmas roast and turkey crisp,
And I lay back upon your arm,
Suckling the milk of your warm hand.
But your hand it tremors and freezes still,
The milk it clots with icy grey,
And turkey’s not crisp and roast is cold,
Anxious and raw and aching, it waits.
Yet with the cold the ice brings flame,
And icy thaw, with soft’ning haze,
My hand it fills with milk anew,
Thick and creamy and ripe with dew.
But the hand it’s mine and milk my own,
It flows and flickers, my golden bright.
And now we sit and feast as one –
As candles we glow, and make our own light.
