I Remember sing and play along

I awake on a chilly Christmas morning,

watch the choir singing carols on TV.

I gaze out through my window at a dozen other windows,

then I plug in my artificial tree.

And like a dream, I begin to remember ev'ry Christmas I used to know,

a thousand miles away,

a million years ago.

I remember sky,

it was blue as ink.

Or at least I think

I remember sky.

I remember snow,

soft as feathers,

sharp as thumbtacks,

coming down like lint.

And it made you squint

when the wind would blow.

And ice, like vinyl, on the streets,

cold as silver, white as sheets.

Rain like strings and changing things,

like leaves.

I remember leaves,

green as spearmint,

crisp as paper.

I remember trees,

bare as coat racks,

spread like broken umbrellas.

And parks, and bridges, ponds, and zoos.

Ruddy faces, muddy shoes.

Light and noise and bees and boys and days.

Oh, I remember days,

or at least I try.

But as years go by,

they're a sort of haze.

And the bluest ink

isn't really sky.

And at times I think

I would gladly die

for a day of sky.