And tomorrow is Christmas,
the heart’s havoc with delight.
Downstairs, the unnatural tree
dressed in glass and light,
pulses with memories.
Will my daughters see the ornament?
Will they see, as I saw,
watching for hours once,
the orb darkened by green-tinseled boughs
radiating needles,
crystal spark moon beam
still and silent as time itself?
Will they see the heart
that moved two hands to place it there?
