Undecorating

It’s always a bit embarrassing.
Our tree stays up with a parched throat
‘til needles fly when the heat vent coughs
and neighbors’ trees lie out by the road.

I’m the reason for it, I think, still searching
with my gifts for the Child, expecting
an elusive Epiphany.

Some say Christmas has come.
I say it keeps coming.

In ways, taking down the tree means
packing up the party, throwing out the card,
muting the carol.

Eventually each finger lends its ring.
The dove’s song is silenced.
Elves go into hiding.
Every bell lays down its clapper.
Ribbon rolls up the red carpet
since the New Year has come.

Again I walk the stations of a child.
Nothing seems more sacred
than stories, sounds, and smells of home.

Each ornament is laid to rest
in a mausoleum of memories.
A tree is never known so well
as when it’s taken down.

As the last lid closes,
I think I hear a baby crying.

—Daniel Potts