Thursday, December 31, 2009

July 6, 2009

The Christmas tree
my mother insists upon
is over fifteen feet high and growing

The ornaments, our
childhood art projects hang
off the plastic giant only waist high

The top is naked
but for the long ribbon of a bow
that spills down each side like crepe lava

my mother
a hopeful
soul, sees
not waste
but canvas
on which
her giant
will paint.

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