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When the Tree Comes Down

On New Year’s Day
or some day later,
reluctant to move on in time,
we clutter the room with empty boxes —

those marked with black felt-tip pens,
crooked letters scrawled to label:
“shiny bells”, “twinkle stars”,
“golden garlands”, “silvery icicles” —
hesitant to pack away the glitter

of this brief respite:
The Holy Christmas Time,
now forced to face
thin naked trees across blank skies,
gray days to come,
oursleves.

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Posted December 13, 2011 by perettipoems in Contemplation

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