The silence of that Yuletide
Lies sick in me. Poison-numb
From mistletoe is my pride
For I have let my sullen tongue
Swallow the darkness
And add to the starkness;
My love’s love’s love has died.
I would not reach, so could not touch
The stifled soul who lay in pain
And though it need not cost me much
Did nothing give, did nothing gain,
Would not the gelling silence stir
That lay with him and me and her
But let cold kisses stay as such.
I might have been a truer friend
I might have been a bridge to cross
I should have been a thread to mend
A garment tearing into dross
But I would not relate
And so could not create
But only helped to end.