We drag the tired tree across the floor
and pull it through the doorway, down a flight
of steps to an ignominious end. Lacy white
snowflakes and red satin balls it wore
now lie in battered boxes. To pack and store
the remnants of our feast, to quench the light,
is hard. The green wreaths dry against the night,
and candles in the windows burn no more.
A tall cupboard holds what we put away
between the times. And there our baubles rest
until December's dawning, when we climb
to reach and hand down boxes. Array
of memories spills from the dark recess
where sleeping angels await the fullness of time.
Previously published in the North Carolina Poetry Society's
"Award Winning Poems, 2000"
Used with the permission of the Poet.
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