Dale Lloyd

I’m watching Christmas come apart—
it soon will disappear,
slipping from my field of sight
for yet another year.
I see my wife, a Christmas elf,
lays each treasure on the shelf,
deep in the closet, behind a door
where it has all been kept before.

We pause a bit and catch our breath,
share a look, a knowing smirk—
and wonder if it’s really worth
the effort that it takes.
“Well, next year will be different,”
we say, and almost mean it too.
Then we smile—because we know
what time and memory will do.

For three hundred sixty-five days from now,
when the season comes again,
we’ll open boxes, hearts, and hands—
and quietly begin again.

But for now, when the last box finds its place,
and silence fills the room,
we stand there—nothing left to do,
no schedules to resume.
Christmas fades from sight and sound,
but this will always stay:
two lives, still choosing one another,
in a love we never pack away.