the castle

a Valentine behind the black lace trees
in the West bleeds down, and
a streetlight blazes forth, the Advent star;
the snow is blue.

when I was my son's age
feverish, as he is, gazing
at the Tree; I'd imagine a castle, a mountain
a Christmas Montmartre (if you will), resplendent
with fairy lights and caves and conflicts.

the red glow of the haunted house, the blue
of the Winter Warlock's wood, the green;
and the whirring, glittering planets my mother,
the Queen of the Universe, lovingly berthed
in their courses.

our castle gleams in the picture window
flickering, the steam-obscured pane its shroud
of mystery,
and I watch his temp slide up and down the meter;
his father, asleep in the next room,
worries by proxy, and I recall

those long evenings in front of the TV
eating ice cream, flushed; my mother alone
with three kids, Dad out of town;
she never betrayed her fear.

And maybe she had a second glass of wine,
as I do now, watching the sun slide down the
tearful pane, into the winter dark
And maybe she wondered, as I do,
where he could be.