December is the month of trees.
Exposed, their branches trace a dark lace
on skies lightened by white clouds.
Stripped to their essentials, they turn
to their hidden branches of roots, falling
asleep in the cold earth.
We crave the magic of trees.
Only now in this perilous season
do we let the wild tree in.
Here in the house, the magic tree
sends out her perfume, sits quiet
for one night, watered, revered, resting.
Let the children come tomorrow
They enlighten her with childish toys.
They carry a little magic still with them
and so she lets them touch her.
Even after the saw, the binding, the wait, the sale.
She lets them touch her, smell her, love her.
Soon enough we will throw her magic
to the curb. Hers and theirs.