What’s so different,
now that one bundle of thirty,
arbitrary and detached, passes,
barely noticed, from one to another?
We have a time.
What’s so different,
as we look out from inside the same
rooms with their corners, known but
unobserved, safe but stultifying?
We have a place.
What’s so different,
the streamers fallen, wine now flat
in decanters of promise, jokes all told,
recognized, congratulated?
We have another.
What’s so different,
these moments of grey ineptitude
encased in more moments, equally
lacking in certitude?
We have ourselves.
What’s so different,
promises made, unkept from the year before,
through wine-stained teeth, and
blurry, careless shrug?
We have a hope.
What’s so different –
she still can’t remember your good things;
he still doesn’t recognize your worth;
they still haven’t apologized
from last year’s infraction?
We have more time.
What’s so different?
We’re alive to ask the question.
A fire makes its heartening presence known, tucked under the hearth upon which hang individual stockings and an antique clock I inherited from my Dad. A delightfully chaotic looking tree, augmented with bobbles made by growing dexterity of little boys’ fingers, the accumulated little boy detritus of Christmas past. They are now men of humour, virtue, and creativity. 
