a wayward winter robin goes --
in the pantry holly grows
and the eaves drip merrily
as cinderhouse groundminster
gets up to stretch his legs.

logs flash yuletidally,
fortunato's coffers increase but mightily
and the wild west
is aghast in filthy snow.

groundminster mulls his flaccid gin
as carollers mewlings turn to din
who knows where
old groundminster will go.

but the stars are out --
or should be,
he can't quite see --
(they are out often enough)

to invisibly light his way
through the night
and back to day
when, with the dawn,
with fresh toast and rancid butter,
with a single mangy cat's singly careful yawn,

all will be restored.