its rite and ritual.
that's right, its more than glass
or brass or hallmark sentimentality.
its more than the sum of its weight,
more than the way it hangs on the tree.
its more than it appears to be, this
"each year at this time we come close to Christmas," the preacher said
and each december, as Christmas looms, hangs
on the horizon,
i open up that blood red box, excitedly,
like santa left it for me. and i pull out
all those memories marked with years like
time capsules, encapsulating Christmases past.
and i hang them like hopes, on that stark tree.
i feel like a child, again, and birth (life) suddenly feels
a whole lot closer,
a whole lot more possible.