The tree has been standing naked on the front porch for almost a week.
I mistook its shadowy presence every morning for an intruder
lurking in the shadows, as it peered in the window, leaning toward the light,
stealing my breath, making my heart race.
He drags the tree to its rightful place as needles drop marking the path from outside to in.
Finally its boughs are wrapped in colored lights transforming it from
morning robber to regal deity; waiting to be paid homage to, for memories to be hung
on its limbs, some new, others bittersweet.
The angel waits in her box as she is temporarily replaced by a hand blown glass spire.
Tradition and convention catch her wings
and she takes her rightful place, peering down on us.
I notice her candle no longer illuminates her face, now broken and wayward,
exposing her as a mere mortal.
I push the vacuum cleaner as it inhales the fallen needles,
obliterating the path from inside to out.
This tree will hold court, holding treasures and family tradition
safe from the stealth of thieves,while crazy glue restores the illusion
of the angel protecting us from the ravages of eventual deterioration.