Folded In December

Along a path within the snow
He makes his nervous way;
He has a little way to go,
So thinks of what he’ll say —

There is a hope he knows is small,
A chance to really feel —
But folded in December, he
Cannot see what is real.

He walks up to her shining door,
And rings the welcome chime,
She and another man are there,
As they are, most the time —

He looks at them and mumbles
Something barely understood
They take as “Merry Christmas –
I was in the neighborhood –”

They ask him in, but he says no,
And back out in the white
He leaves his rose out on bench
Where it can spend the night

It is one more rejection,
To have no one as his own —
‘Cause folded in December means
Just one more month


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Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

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