Keeping Christmas Day dawns bright the morning after Twelfth Night,

the sixth of January, a date so deeply etched in our minds

by that rascal Shakespeare

who cast his fantastical net enchanting future centuries.

I am sad, but yet not sad,

for it is time for Christmas to come down.

 

 In the living room, the Christmas tree stands

so perfect in all its gaudy, glittering, garlanded height

like an eccentric cousin visiting from a more formal land.

Unwrapped presents lie piled on the velvet tree skirt

below gleaming Christmas balls that hang like planets

         from balsam boughs.

Silently, we begin the ritual undressing of the tree,

as if decommissioning a once-proud ship,

our movements mysterious, pagan, druidic….

 

 Later, the snaking strings of lights coiled for next year,

the ornaments safe in fruit boxes, the tree top angel

         tucked in tissue paper,

I pull the tree free of the stand and carry it out the door,

a trail of balsam needles littering the floor.

 Outside, a few Christmas trees are already by the curb,

sprawled beside trash bags and garbage cans,

but it is our household rule never to discard a Christmas tree.

 

 Out back, I lop off each branch, balsam pervading the air.

Balsam resin collects on my hands as I spread the boughs

         on flowerbeds.

I place the eight-foot trunk to edge the raspberries,

knowing that in summers to come each sumptuous berry

will have the taste of Christmas—

plump, acid-sweet, Santa Claus red….

 

 Standing, I see all around the yard

the trunks of Christmas trees from years past,

edging fruit trees and garden beds,

slowly decomposing,

leaching Christmas cheer and childhood

back into the teeming soil.

 

© by Timothy Walsh.

Used with the author’s permission.