The same old spot gets cleared again and all
those boxes full of ancient tinkling glass
are hauled from musty spaces; silver grass
like snakes survey the tree on which they’ll crawl.
Reflections multiply, illuminate
with sentimental whims as flashing lights
adorn each bushy branch, the smell ignites
a crazy urge to loudly celebrate.
Mementos stored in cardboard vaults invoke
the need to journey back, beyond that point
when vows became the stony walls of pride.
But fragile trinkets jostled finally broke,
their healing balm no longer to anoint
as chilling snow accumulates outside.
Christmas... the great charlatan. Cloaked in red, it spirits in with all its pomp and pride, and finds every fissure holding our remorse; then forces it into the open, all the while caroling down the esplanade, our tears possibly hidden, yet intact.
ReplyDeleteHoliday, indeed...
Wow, couldn't have said it better. But hope you still have a nice one ;)
ReplyDelete