TIS THE SEASON…AGAIN AND AGAIN

　

Every December

my wife scurries about like a hungry mouse

in the storage space beneath the hall stairs

One by one she retrieves the boxes

as if they were delicate artifacts

exhumed from ancient Egyptian tombs

Inside the boxes

rest the glittering ornaments and miniature houses

muffled with snow, her practiced hands

lovingly directing them to their preordained positions

in her annual tableau

She decorates the tree with all the care

of a mother dressing her newborn,

while carols careen through the yuletide ether

of our living room

It is the same dance every year,

as circumscribed as winter frost on kitchen windows,

and every year her giddiness is like a carousel

that spins me back to childhood holidays,

so that for a few hours I am a boy again,

my blood bubbling with the rapture of Christmas wonderment.