Tending to my own garden now, the gate’s still latched, but I’ve stopped watering the flowers we planted together. Watching them grow (or not) from the window. No rush, no push. Just... letting things be as they are.
The tinsel’s a noose around the tree’s throat. This fire will burn out when the last carol dies and I won’t be here to light another. The shadow at my feet is already melting into the snow that’s meant to bury me.
This star is the last one I’ll hang; the eggnog tastes like a final toast. The tree’s roots are digging deep, but my feet are already on a path that bends away from next year’s snow.
The evergreen will light up again, tinsel will weave its silver web but I’m not sure my shadow will stretch long enough to touch the next one. Got my eye on a door that only opens once the last bell stops ringing.