The Taking Down
The Holidays have gone out with the trash
all Christmas poetry gone down with tree
then boxed away, the lights no longer free,
to store the joy collected with my stash.
Now I hear Haydn come from inside rooms,
no room for Christmas in my thumbtack home
now different stars cluster under my dome,
a string quartet whose melody still looms.
This difference between the reasonable
or definition of the rational
within the packaging of this Holiday.
Now our soup is served on a plain table,
a transition even if trivial,
where green and red tablecloth once had say.
This seasonal perfection takes its toll
upon the old man and his simple joys,
his need to quiet all his inside noise,
ignite the coal he finds within his soul.
To box and take extensive notes of sounds,
the scratch of needle after a choral,
the muffled sound of folding up floral
arrangements found upon these trodden grounds.
Why does it take so long to say goodbye
to festivals we bow to every year
these symbols hanging from our Christmas tree.
To start another season’s ingrained sigh
these chores a way to conquer silent fear
to box away the lights no longer free.
In time the world will thin and seem so sparse,
last year our Cornucopia was full
made us forget about our constant pull
and daily reminders of morning farce.
This taking down an act of theater
where I take leading role upon this stage
to teach my children routines from my age,
to hold them tight, each a conspirator.
Each box is stored away where they belong,
each trinket hidden, mixed with old and new,
away from sight and darkened without light.
Our home, our church, where we sing our plainsong
after a liturgy on how we grew
from Holidays that fall from our eyesight.
“All Christmas poetry gone down with the tree.” There is a place in this box for this: https://www.creativeexiles.com/2018/12/time-to-slice-up-the-fruitcake-with-friends-and-family/
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