I have no clear idea why
my Christmas must have
mincemeat pie

I cannot find a sensible clue
why verses want
to stream from you

your eyes, your face, your shape is all
that moves my Christmas shell
to fall

this season's full of love-light bliss
though yesterday, 
was hit or miss

four figurines upon the ledge
remind me to always
keep my pledge

three trumpets of my winter flower
hang dejectedly 
to spite my power

Lines cut across my sight
no matter if 
I rub you right

I am dreaming of mincemeat pie
and this the season
I won't lie