It never grew on the ridge
of a mountain,
nestled among giants of the wood.
An evergreen of plastic
and twisted wire.
A tree born from the womb
of a factory’s machine,
clothed in ribbon and satin,
berries of lacquer.
No star shined on its birth,
no seed rushed through
the earth
to give it a soul.
It stands in greeting
for what it is
by the door.
Like the icon of the virgin
made of plaster or stone,
pointing through the center
of creation.
The tree is a playful spirit,
showered with enchantment,
the quickening of a face,
a song
lingering in the center of silence.
A girl’s Christmas
remembered through ages,
with colorful garlands
strung on the branches,
and
the tree gathers itself
in my passing,
saying,
I am Mary’s love, truly embodied,
and I wink at the tree,
understanding,
as I reply,
Merry Christmas to you,
and to Mary.