On the top shelf of my closet,
sits tight for winter.
Come December, always one of us
coaxes it down from cramped repose,
clears a place on our buffet
and directs the tree to burst
into color--to shine its many tiny bulbs
on our patch of earth one more year,
to let every single bulb release
all it can and light up continents
on our burdened souls.
I don't know why or how
I lost my hold but our heirloom
tumbles like a bird shot from
the sky and in a flash of color
I see Christmas past,
I see the future as a memory,
I see a Christmas legend
being born.
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