heart bleeding at the base,
I’ve yearned for the traditions of others,
abandoning my own in mistrust.
Where is the base of this tree?
Is it rooted in connection
or uprooted, killed to die
for some indoor tradition
that does not feel genuine?
Angel at the top,
are you watching over us?
Presents at the base,
will you fulfill our needs?
Seeing all the firs, pines, and spruce
in high demand this time of year,
I envision this body as a tree--
sits bones rooted in earth,
crown sunkissed, starstruck, moonswept.
Ornaments etched with glittering words
adorn these branches, these limbs,
words that have more dimensionality
than the ornaments themselves.
Generosity. Patience. Reverence.
How I decorate my inner life
determines how I see others,
and sense relationships with soul.