A Telecaster for a Blue Christmas

When the wind blows cold across ridges near Lake Walk-in-Water,
and a northern tree stands silent in the corner,
flashing tiny lights like soft voices gone unheard,
my plans don't include any kids or bikes or model trains,
no Christmas village—I can easily get a stocking full of Blues.



When the dog senses daylight slipping off, giving into night
at an hour that should be sunset, but instead has given up the fight,
I look for things that others have for Christmas,
and somehow theirs is right.


There seems to be no pear tree, the partridge has fluttered in flight,
I am left with the notion that nothing will stir, as the Blues will own the night.
So I wonder, "where's the wonder?" and I search to make things right.
I pull on faded memories, I buy candles someone else would light.
My mind hears softened voices, dim cheer for distant visions,
the frost seems warm whilst flames drift wet and dance cold through night.


Then comes a song, a Blues moment clear, a thought occurs, a twinkle stirs—
my hands can work this thing, my voice can join it well.
I can make this happen and spend this night caroling the Blues to tell,
I'll make my Christmas special and make it glow and growl like fire.
My gift you see, to none but me, a Telecaster beneath my tree!