Perfume of frasier fir wanders through our house.
Lit with lights and hung with a riot of ornamentsÂ
that tree catalogs our lives.
The crazy scribbled paper box
the clay cookie cutter circles
the flour paste painted blob
my sons made as boys.
Clay stars and gingerbread men
from my own first tree
felt birds I stitched as a child
assorted music themed ornaments
given me by piano students
the treetop angel disheveled andÂ
stained (but still lovely) sewn by theÂ
long gone mother of a friend.
All these I‘d never foregoÂ
for something more stylish
for they tell a hundred stories ofÂ
Christmases past and those who
were present.
