A Black History month song that sounds like a Christmas carol.

Waving at the choirs singing carols.

Smiling at the children making cheer.

Gearing up for mirth and celebration.

But Christmas means a different thing this year.

It won’t be long until the snow falls,

dotting trees and hills in glistening white.

What lies beneath, I still can recall,

but when I hear my dreams howling in the wind,

I feel restless as they’re hiding out of sight.

Hugs I give my friends, they will be heartfelt.

Wishes of goodwill will be sincere.

Blessings that remain after the snow melts.

But Christmas means a different thing this year.

I’ll wrap this feeling like a blanket.

I will wear this yearning like a shawl.

I filled my cup, now I must drink it.

Missing faces, places, traces and me,

and the way that everything used to be.

Stringing pearls of memories while the snowflakes fall.

What’s on my mind, you wanted to know.

I struggle how to put it into words.

It’s a holiday and it is also:

Not yet dusk, but no longer dawn.

You feel both engaged and withdrawn.

It’s an emptiness that lulls you to sleep,

but it grows no less in the waking hours you keep.

It’s a solitude inside a busy crowd,

a lonely voice when life gets loud.

It’s a love letter to yesterday,

romanticized after it drifts away.

So it’s everything – and nothing – in a sense…

I will say goodbye to what has faded,

what has run its course and disappeared.

Still have plenty o' reasons to be grateful.

But Christmas means a different thing this year.