Maybe Christmas would still come

Winter wind,
whistling by;
shaking the icicles,
and they cling as if they are afraid to die.

Everything is buried,
it's beneath a foot of frozen gloom;
but I don't have the heart,
to take my shovel and exhume.

Desolate is the wasteland,
without so much as a sound;
what once was life,
is now sprawled across the ground.

If it were another time,
and perhaps some other place;
maybe Christmas would still come,
and raise my sullen face.