She sits on a faded brocade chair
brown age spots and blue veins
eyes clouded by cataracts
lace curtain pulled back.
Her house is on a cul de sac,
last one on the end curve.
Yard swings, long quiet
moved wistfully in summer winds
now shrouded in new-fallen snow.
Nearby holiday displays
draw a slow parade of cars
like moths drawn to light.
Cold drive-by strangers
slip past the lone dark house.
Her solitary reading lamp
turned off at seven
A Christmas Carol splayed open
on the wood planked floor.
lillian the home poet 
Wow, Lillian, so unusual! This poem takes me to another time and space. The conflict of summer and A Christmas Carol is brilliant.
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So nice to see your comment over an evening glass of Chardonnay :). Thank you so much for the kind words. Truly appreciated!
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