The Christmas tree is smaller than in years past.
No children sit beneath it, eyes wide,
hearts open for whatever is in store.
I sit gazing at it, wondering how I was able
to adorn its branches with years of decorations,
each fraught with meaning, each a little dagger
reminding me that things are not as I would have them be.
If this tree were to transform into a burning bush,
would I take it as a sign? Would I, instead,
extinguish its flames and refuse to see Your presence?
Or might I warm my hands in its ethereal heat,
accepting that You come to me in the most mysterious ways?
This tree, this night, these memories, remind me that
the fire within burns brightest in the darkest of times.
H. Cristina Cassidy copyright December 2017
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