Home for the Holidays

Ironic

That this place where I grew up

The room in which I came of age

This house - so big

And this town - so small

Though shrouded in memory

- each annal with its own story -

And housing those I love

Ironic, it is

That out this window

The very window out of which

Countless nights I laid awake

And asked the moon my fortune

As teenage angst did sweep my heart

Out this window

All I see

Is dying branches

Browned arms of lifeless trees

A graveyard boreal

Ironic

That I only visit here in winter

A lifeless time of year

Though cozy in a bed of love

Encircled in my family’s warmth 

Outside, there is only cold

And gazing out my window

- a man, no more a boy -

All I see are withered memories

Disparate reminders

Of time’s steady gait

A westward wind howls

It’s time to move on

This place

Though here my family stays

Is not my home

And once they leave

I’ll close my blinds

And I won’t look back