And so he waits, waits on, below, and thinks of them again,
those who ignored him, or, much worse, pretended they were friends --
He's never talked much. Always terse. He's more so since the end.
He doesn't care to think about the way things were before.
It's better now. He has no doubt. And yet there's something more.
He misses it. His mother, yes -- he loved her, through and through,
but now he finds himself obsessed with something that they'd do.
Not that often. Once a year. It had a name, he knows.
For one day, he would have no fear, just -- joy, he must suppose.
They'd put the tree up, wind the lights. At night he'd lie below,
beneath so he could see up, and sleep beneath the glow,
and wake up to the presents -- few and poor, they were, that's true,
and mother's song of peasants feasting to the king of Jews.
He wonders if they have it still, up there. If they forgot.
They'd forget him, but then he kills again. And so he's not.
It's long years since he's seen a sled. Or taken one to hand.
Were the runners sharp, now? He forgets. Could one kill a man?
Could ice skates cut a woman's throat? How could he use a tree?
Or a red, white-fur-trimmed coat? He wishes he could see.
He'd string them up with colored lights. Carol with their screams.
He does it sometimes, late at night, but only in his dreams.
The lake will freeze. He waits below, till comes the time to wake,
and never sees the snow that falls above on Crystal Lake.