Month: December 2018

I direct a frown at my empty mailbox

And shake my head with a sigh.

I peer once again into the abyss, then

I open my mouth and cry:

“Where, oh where, are this year’s Christmas cards?

Oh where, oh where, can they be?

Last year by this time I had fifty or more;

One year a hundred and three.”

I ease the box closed, go back in my house, but

It’s warmth offers little balm.

Only five measly cards hang on the archway,

And one is from chewy.com

Could the problem be that I have the wrong month?

I am a blonde, after all.

So I hurry into the kitchen and gawk

At the calendar on the wall.

But I see December written in bold font,

And calendars never lie.

I lift my hands to the heavens above and

let out a bewildered cry :

“Where, oh where, are this year’s Christmas cards?

Oh where, oh where, can they be?

Have I done something to offend all my friends?

Has family forgotten me?”

As I sink deep into the depth of despair,

And my heart fills up with grief,

I suddenly gasp; the reason seems clear!—

This is the work of a thief!

While I’m writing on my computer each day,

With eyes focused on the screen,

A sneaky old Scrooge steals those cards from my box

And runs before he is seen.

He takes them all home and pretends they are his;

That’s how he gets his thrills.

If he’s going to poach then the least he could do

Is abscond with all my bills.

No, that’s silly; no bandit would want to take

My Christmas cards on the sly.

I’m not a victim of a holiday heist,

So I can’t help but still cry:

“Where, oh where, are this year’s Christmas cards?

Oh where, oh where, can they be?”

It’s not the wrong month or a Scroogey thief, yet

My mailbox is still empty.”

“The neighbors!” I shout to my startled brown dog.

“That’s where my cards must all be.

The mailman delivered to them by mistake,

The cards that were meant for me.”

Without a thought for a coat or warm boots

I sprint across snowy yards.

I hammer on all of the neighboring doors,

And ask for my Christmas cards.

But, alas and alack. My neighbors all say,

“You have no Christmas cards here.”

I trudge home again with my head hanging low,

And wipe away a lone tear.

“Where, oh where, are this year’s Christmas cards?

Oh where, oh where, can they be?”

I slouch on my couch with my empathic dog, 

Who eyes me with sympathy.

Dejected and dismal, I slump and I scowl.

 And then, I finally see.

Could it be that no one sent me cards because

They didn’t get one from me?

“The busyness,” I confess to my brown dog,

“Kept me from Christmas greetings.

The shopping, the baking, the merry making;

The season is too fleeting.”

But if I’m too harried to send Christmas cards

In the short time I have free,

Then how can I expect family and friends

To address a card to me?

“I’m a fool,” I say to my  heedful hound.

“I’ve been so darn cavalier,

To let Christmas pass without sending a card

To those I hold so, so dear.”

I dig out the Christmas card box in my desk;

I sit and turn on the light.

I bring up my contacts, and starting with “A”,

I open a card and write,

Here, oh here, is this year’s Christmas card,

Oh here, it’s long overdue.

I thank the good Lord that you’re part of my life

Today and always. Love, Sue