Christmas Tree

The ever-repeating ritual: floors scrubbed clean
In the anticipation of the arrival of the Christmas visitor
Into our souls and homes, her fragrant boughs still captured
In ropes like a fantastic wild bird;
Innocence and faithfulness overcome the rapid flow of time,
And the glass beads, old, touched with black on the chipping edges
tinkle faintly, stretching magically a path into lost childhood
where I, very little, in a silk puffy dress
stand on the edge of the sofa, barely breathing with happiness,
following the flight of my mother's hands
stitching silver bells on the pink hem.
The house is filled with the aroma of chocolate and tangerines,
father is crowning the tree with a star,
presents await in paper bags
and fists are full of candy.
Then - the bliss of sitting quietly, in the dark,
waiting for the miracle of transfiguration
when the ruby, sapphire and emerald lights
spring to life on disappearing branches.
Tissue paper and cotton wool, boxes of memories
Among the dry whisper of pine needles and tinsel
Golden globes, a mushroom and pouting fish
birds, Harlequins, tiny churches, benevolent angels
And babes in their blankets of sparkling confetti

My son is trimming the tree