Christmas eve, a thin snow-carpet with a sigh.

Wind swirling up, a chilling edged knife to its bite.

Casts a pall on what might have been right.

In a woollen jacket, jeans worn through at the knees,

Joseph Tiller trudges to the barn, dragging his ladder without ease.

A gait without sprite, his head hung low,

thinking of Christmas a long time ago.

Several barnboards

pushed out by the wi...