Cat's eyes search for someone near the tree. 
Ten below, twenty with the wind—  
the same cold my father knew, 
standing watch on another Christmas.

Power's out. We huddle close. 
The departed huddle too— 
shoulder to shoulder with the living, 
warming themselves at our fireplace.

Candles burn: cinnamon, spruce, 
mom's bayberry. 
An old sock hangs from the mantle, 
waiting for candy 
a name still embroidered there.

Laughter in the dim light. 
Silence, too. The ghosts lean close, 
listening to the dying embers— 
their faces flicker in the grate, 
fading as the coals go dark.