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.