In this bright room
the tree stands, raw,
naked, the winter chill
breathing from its branches.
Its branches still are dark,
folded, not quite unfurled
from the cocoon in which
we brought it home.
We shall tame this tree
festoon it with tinsel
and galaxies of stars;
and like a ritual offering
load it with the burden of our past.
Janice Windle
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/seasonal-poems-sacrifice/
