Christmas Tree Poem by Danielle Ward

These are the things of my childhood,
These shining trinkets and baubles,
Tinsel sparkling through girl-woman eyes.
The child that has held these is still here,
And she is awakened by the dusty smell
Of opened boxes, of blossoming plastic
As the tree grows from red nylon ground.
The hands that sought man-made snowflakes
And mute trumpets and paper angels,
Their prints will still be there,
In the darkness of boxes all year through,
In the brightness of festivity, every winter.