first christmas

my hands, cold from wondering, hold themselves
little knots of knuckles, worries, december chills
scarves and coats and winter smells
it's never easy, miles apart
it's always lonesome, it's always hard

reasons to have written

when i was not much younger and very far behind
i pretended to be a cat and there was
a ball of yarn, red and unraveling. it wasn't mine.
the echoes of toddlerhood, faint with neglect
clamped into my ears, i played. i pounced.
foreign dreams, foreign things. the staple
did not tear, it poked and sliced. i became small,
whittled with age and you know- there is nothing to do
but regret

and i have never smiled at the color of regret.