Today we put away the Christmas ornaments
mainly decorated fragile glass balls
that decorate our tree for a few weeks each year
and have done, most of them, for a half century
give or take a dozen years or so.
The sturdy black ones were the first we bought
for our that little scotch pine that stood on the
table in our first apartment; but they are not
the oldest: those are your parents’
inherited with the house we live in now
some of them over seventy years old
Some reflect light beautifully, and they hang
strategically behind the illuminated bulbs;
others we have a theory about: some have
a lovely sheen that seems mystical
others were tough enough to hang at the bottom
of the trees, so curious pets and babies
could do harm that could be fixed with glue
They have presided over joyous
gift receptions and disappointments
over first kisses, tastes, approvals,
indiscretions, beginnings and ends,
traditions such as pudding and
pajamas in the living room
Speeches and prayers, hymns and poetry
stories, photographs, memories of worth
heartfelt declarations all took life and grew into legend
in the rich reflected glow from these ornaments
that will sit again, as they do for most of their existences
in ancient cardboard boxes whose mysteries are supended
at the beginning each year to be resumed at its end.
