Just Another Christmas

 A tiny Christmas tree was stood,
On a dirty windowsill,
Not nearly enough ornaments at all,
Its' branches to try and fill.
No presents sat beside it there,
Nor on the floor below,
No lights to decorate it and
To make a pretty glow.
The old man's eyes, dimmed by time,
Made it hard for him to see...
No longer able to do his best,
When he decorated the tree.
He sits so quietly, in a wooden chair,
A blanket to help keep him warm,
His hands so old, and wrinkled now...
His clothes all faded and worn.
He sits so still, no emotion there,
On his worn and wrinkled face,
Just waiting for his heart to slow,
And finally give up the race.
For him it's another Christmas,
Like so many gone before,
When none of his kids, drive the miles,
To come knocking at his door.
It's not that we don't love him,
And not that we don't care...
It's just so easy for us to think,
That Dad will always be there.
So it's just another Christmas,
When we'll call him on the phone...
And tell him like we did last year,
"Next year, Dad, we will come home."
(c)  2001  Loree (Mason) O'Neil

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