Poem: January 6, 2019

Epiphany

We are taking down the Christmas tree,
packing away the silver ribbon, the ornaments,
the lights and the tree skirt.

Each December we fill our house with curiosities
that represent time and accumulation and home and family.
The whole ordeal grows each year-
a real production, a strange annual nesting habit.
We delight in the unwrapping,
the careful placement of artifacts,
the communal ritual of it all.

The purpose, I think, must be to make the house feel full.

We are constructing the rich, comfortable cradle of our years together.

Then, on 12th Night, we begin to deconstruct.
We put away the gifts, the stars and stockings.
We box up the Nativity.

And there it is.
The pleasure of empty spaces.