There are so many faces missing
as each Yuletide season passes,
so many to remember,
all the bright-eyed lads and lasses.
The old black dog
who stuck his head
right in the Christmas stocking,
and glared offended dignity,
thinking our laughter mocking.
I'll walk a snowy winter trail
to honor his memory,
and I'll keep a candle glowing
on the sill so he can see,
set out a rocking chair
for Grandma
and a flowered plate of treats
so she can rest her tired spirit.
Grandma always loved the sweets.
Around the Christmas table, now,
so many who are gone -
we'll watch the film of those old days,
tell stories all night long.
I know now
why my Grandpa cried,
with emotion overcome:
so many dear ones gone away,
so many young ones come.
The wheel of life,
it turns and turns,
ushers us out and in,
enjoy the present
while we can -
someone leaves
with every spin.
The ghosts of Christmas past,they glow,
so pretty on the screen,
the folk of Christmas present
all too briefly
to be seen.
So lay the yule log on the fire
and set the table merry,
bedeck the dogs with antlers
and pour a round of sherry.
