It never grew on the ridge
\nof a mountain,
\nnestled among giants of the wood.
\nAn evergreen of plastic
\nand twisted wire.
\nA tree born from the womb
\nof a factory\u2019s machine,
\nclothed in ribbon and satin,
\nberries of lacquer.
\nNo star shined on its birth,
\nno seed rushed through
\nthe earth
\nto give it a soul.
\nIt stands in greeting
\nfor what it is
\nby the door.
\nLike the icon of the virgin
\nmade of plaster or stone,
\npointing through the center
\nof creation.<\/p>\n
The tree is a playful spirit,
\nshowered with enchantment,
\nthe quickening of a face,
\na song
\nlingering in the center of silence.
\nA girl\u2019s Christmas
\nremembered through ages,
\nwith colorful garlands
\nstrung on the branches,
\nand
\nthe tree gathers itself
\nin my passing,
\nsaying,
\nI am Mary\u2019s love, truly embodied,
\nand I wink at the tree,
\nunderstanding,
\nas I reply,
\nMerry Christmas to you,
\nand to Mary.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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…<\/p>\n