I’d wanted to write something about these ornaments, which I loved for their family history, for a long, long time. Then I found out they are now considered “valuable collectibles,” and for some odd reason, that helped the poem to click. www.barbaracrooker.com
Here, the bells are silent, blown glass hung from
branches of pine whose fragrance fills the room.
It's December, and the world's run out of color.
Darkness at five seems absolute outside
the nine-squared panes of glass. But inside
hundreds of small white lights reflect off
fragile ornaments handed down from before
the war. They're all Shiny-Brite, some solid balls--
hot pink, lime green, turquoise, gold—some striped
and flocked. This night is hard obsidian, but these glints
pierce the gloom, just like their glittery echoes, the stars.
We inhale spruce, its resinous breath: the hope of spring,
the memory of summer. Every day, another peal
on the carillon of light.
first published in the MacGuffin
©2017 Barbara Crooker
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