by Jane Hertenstein
At Christmas every light comes on,
in the basement where my daughter
home from college retrieves ice cream,
in the dining room a lamp illuminates
the abandoned puzzle, the laundry nook
dazzles, while the back porch radiates a
smoky incandescence, the TV flickers
a blue twilight, in the middle of the night
my heart pulses as I reflect. Soon
the house will be silent, the only light
the bulb above my reading chair.
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