Christmas Tree Lights

A fir tree lot
three kids run wild searching
the biggest, the fullest, the tallest
reined in by one to fit
our living room.
Mother, indecisive in the face
of choosing ham or baloney,
finding fault with leaning
and bald spots,
left it up to Father, our decider.
He cut it down.

We waited with baited breath
forbidden speech or helping
Father balanced it in the tree stand,
bald spot to the wall,
anxious hour for the branches
surrendering to gravity
before the weaving of the lights
within the branches
Father’s part of the ritual
complete with scratched arms
of season sacrifice.

Mother’s role in the ritual began
sorting bulbs out to her acolyte children
little, middle, and oldest
matched to tree height
reds, golds, silvers, blues, whites
shining in the reflections of the
vines of lights. Artificial snow
dribbled out in long spider webs
white misty garlands

But ah, the beauty returning
after the midnight service
of carols and worship,
family in the community,
grateful for the Birth of love
and the glory of that bright tree
in he dark and cold
shining in our eyes
and hearts
the brilliance of its lights.

Biography:

Poet Victoria Crawford celebrates Easter with words breathed with joy.  Her poems have appeared in Time of Singing, Flesh of the Heart, The Lyric, and other journals.