Hogsmeade Lights

Along the path, the laden trees
sparkle with glistening snow
reflecting the Hogsmeade lights,
the wintry cold a joyful presence,
lifting up the mournful spirit
warmed by the cider-filled mug.
He wraps his hands around the mug
and gazes to the silent trees
encompassed by the holiday spirit,
planted strong among the falling snow.

The inn is full of a cheerful presence
brought on by the glowing Hogsmeade lights.
They remind him of the past, those lights,
of times by the fire with a mug,
enveloped by a vast, loving presence
that is unrelated to decorated Christmas trees
and captured in the silence of falling snow:
the true and wondrous seasonal spirit
brought on by the innocent spirit
young children possess in light
of all the wrongs the world conceives. The snow
distracts him, steam rising from the simple mug,
and his gaze lands on the leafless trees
on Hogsmeade's lane, their sleeping presence
invoking a deep sense of guilt at the presence
of memories, of his late wife's spirit
still within his heart and dancing with the trees.

The tears in his eyes capture the lights
from the outside lane, his sorrows deep in the mug,
deep in the cold, pale snow.
He heavily sighs at the Hogsmeade snow
and tries to enjoy the hub's cheerful presence,
but now he holds an empty mug,
releasing its hold on his mournful spirit
that flutters to the holiday lights
and wraps around the icy trees.
He leaves the mug behind to follow his spirit,
trenching now through snow, feeling a newfound presence
of joy, basking in the lights, and enjoying the white trees.