The tree trembles with
fronds of silver, reflecting rainbows.
It is a sacrifice now, to gods
of family and winter.
Ephemeral in its tinsel beauty,
transient as our lives,
the fragile ornaments each year
lovingly repacked, next December
reinstated to significance -
the tree returned, a drying corpse,
to the garden dump.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Dust to dust Janice with a little sparkle in between just for our delight. Nice one. Sid.