Christmas Tree

Christmas Tree

by John Frederick Nims

This seablue fir that rode the mountain storm   

Is swaddled here in splints of tin to die.   

Sofas around in chubby velvet swarm;   

Onlooking cabinets glitter with flat eye;   

Here lacquer in the branches runs like rain   

And resin of treasure starts from every vein.

Light is a dancer here and cannot rest.   

No tanagers or jays are half so bright

As swarms of fire that deep in fragrance nest   

In jungles of the gilt exotic night

Where melons hang like moonstone. White above   

Rises that perfect star, the sign of love.

On carpets' fairy turf, in rainbow dark,

Here once the enchanted children laid their heads,   

Reached for the floating moon above the park,   

And all their hopes were simple blues and reds.   

Beneath the electric halo, none could see   

Swords in the ankle of the victim tree.

Each named a patron star: Arthur said green   

For August in the country; and Betty blue

For swinging and the Florida surf; while Jeanne   

Decided gold. One horoscope was true:

The star of Donald low and lava-red—

Enlisted Donald, in Australia dead.

Our lives were bound to sorcery and night.   

Zodiacs crumble on the boughs of rust

For every child is gone. Some burned too bright   

And now lie broken in the bins of dust;

And some, a fortunate few, adventured far   

And found assurance in the perfect star.