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Not Yet Christmas

It is three a.m. again.
A wide-eyed calico
rubs my shin --
too early for breakfast.

Strings of bulbs twinkle on the porch,
raucous pin points
warm the frigid December powder,
expectant, but too soon for sleigh bells.

Mother's wingback chair comforts,
years after she's gone.
I yawn...yawn again
this day is done.

--ns 12/3/2005

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