“The Day You Take the Christmas Tree Down” by Carol Berg

The Day You Take the Christmas Tree Down

should be late January, the tired sun
should be just starting to set,

a sliver of metaphor. Fire in the wood stove
to keep you from being lonely. (You will be lonely.)

All that will float up as you take the ornaments off
the still green tree. This stork holding a swathed baby

reminds you of your dead mother,
this glass balloon equals your dead

sister-in-law. The news of the day
turned back on, loudly, of imminent wars

with Iraq, random killings, fires
in Australia. The fragrant pine needles

slipping from the branches. The pale
sunlight now used up. The circular white

snowflakes you carry from the tree, and still
you’ll miss one, after the boxes have been

placed on the shelf in the closet. Extra candy
canes you’ve used for years you still pack carefully away.

How frayed the season now, how frayed
the short days. There is only the winter sky

to study, the changeable flicker of gray.
Outside, the crust of snow under boot,

the only music that resonates, that rings out.

Carol Berg

Carol Berg’s poems are forthcoming or in Crab Creek Review (Poetry Finalist 2017), DMQ Review, Sou’wester, The Journal, Spillway, South Dakota Review, Redactions, Radar Poetry, Verse Wisconsin. Her recent chapbook, The Johnson Girls, is available from dancing girl press. She was winner of a scholarship to Poets on the Coast and a recipient of a Finalist’s Grant from the Massachusetts Cultural Council.

Headshot Credit: Jenn Monroe

Photo Credit: Staff