The end of time will come one day,
and it may be during our annual Christmas Eve party.
All the guests will evacuate the house
through the basement door,
into the darkening afternoon-
our friends, family and neighbors,
crunching through the snow
in their dress shoes.
We’ll huddle in the brush
at the back of the property,
eating cookies with numb fingers
and sharing a bottle of Beaujolais
(which someone will have surely remembered to grab
from the buffet table on the way out the door).
Our knees will smell like mud
as we scrunch up, communing.