Ghosts of Seasons Past
by Mary Wight
In cold rain, she makes her way
steadied by a cane, hood pulled tight
over white hair, pink rubber bootees bright.
She is rounding up her dwindled herd.
Three sodden reindeer lean against a wall,
tinsel collars glint in the fading grey light.
Unseen, I watch from a small, high window.
An unwashed blue shirt lies crumpled on the floor.