Bells of Christmas Past
On Christmas Eve night,
The only sound
Within our house
Comes from its wooden frame,
Creaking
And settling
Like three footsteps
Carefully
Stepping
From the upstairs
To downstairs
Then nothing more,
An exhausted ghost
Lifted
From the hot air
Of the furnace
That begins to blow
Through the opened vents
On the wooden floors.
But then,
From the living room
Down the hall,
A tiny bell
Rings
Rings
Rings.
I go to see.
From under the Christmas tree,
Lit
With twinkling lights
Like the skyline of a city
Towering upon a bay at night,
The presents
Underneath
Wrapped
And stacked
In all the colors,
Rippling
Like a watery reflection,
I see
Our cat
With his snowy white paw,
Much like a miniature mitten,
Batting the air,
Back and forth,
Above his head,
Jiggling
A little bell
That fell
From the top of the tree,
Snagged by the tree’s scraggly arm
Outstretched
At the hem of its billowing skirt,
Pulsating a tiny
Ting
Ting
Ting
Through all the rooms
Throughout our house
In the pendulum eyes
Of that curious cat,
Holy echoes
From all my Christmas’ past.
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