Christmas Poem

The tide has left me without want,
there is a cherry, picked by Eve (or Mary)
fallen, now, only a stone, in soft milk air.
List another,
the leaves have fallen and no one noticed.
The holly berry has bloomed into lushness,
and without the blackbird
this may not be called autumn.
Conkers have come and gone,
underneath soil layers lie generations
of glossy shell.
At one time or another
there is always a possibility
that one season may blend
and give life to another.
This is not the first time
the rest has been empty,
I have been alone much longer,
and much more silent.