Christmas Tree

                                                                         To be
                                                             Brought down at last
                                                    From the cold sighing mountain
                                                            Where I and others
                                                  Had been fed, looked after, kept still,
                                                 Meant, I knew,—of course I knew—
                                               That it would be only a matter of weeks,
                                                   That there was nothing more to do.
                                             Warmly they took me in, made much of me,
                                          The point from the start was to keep my spirits up.
                                                     I could assent to that. For honestly,
                                                    It did help to be wound in jewels, to send
                                           Their colors flashing forth from vents in the deep
                                             Fragrant sables that cloaked me head to foot.
                                             Over me then they wove a spell of shining—
                                            Purple and silver chains, eavesdripping tinsel,
                                                  Amulets, milagros: software of silver,
                                                      A heart, a little girl, a Model T,
                                     Two staring eyes. The angels, trumpets, BUD and BEA
                                             (The children’s names) in clownlike capitals,
                                             Somewhere a music box whose tiny song
                                              Played and replayed I ended before long
                                        By loving. And in shadow behind me, a primitive IV
                                          To keep the show going. Yes, yes, what lay ahead
                                       Was clear: the stripping, the cold street, my chemicals
                                          Plowed back into the Earth for lives to come—
                                    No doubt a blessing, a harvest, but one that doesn't bear,
                                       Now or ever, dwelling upon. To have grown so thin.
                                          Needles and bone. The little boy’s hands meeting
                              About my spine. The mother’s voice: Holding up wonderfully!
                                    No dread. No bitterness. The end beginning. Today’s
                                                                 Dusk room aglow
                                                                  For the last time
                                                                  With candlelight.
                                                                     Faces love lit,
                                                                   Gifts underfoot.
                                                             Still to be so poised, so
                                                    Receptive. Still to recall, to praise.