A WINTER’S TALE

 

or

 

THE CHRISTMAS TREE

 

 

 

            What common things rejoice the old or young,

            the rise or setting of a moon or sun,

            the lyric chime of bell in fog or storm,

            blanket of snow or meadow-flower bloom,

            the wonder of departure and return,

            of tinsel vines, glass fruits in the cold of the year,

season of artifice, lighting the dark and the sere.

 

            “I see this is the time the unjust man

            doth thrive.”  But virtue’s cultivation prunes

            away unruly freedoms, works a ban

            on light and color, fruit and flower, ruins

            that logic of redemption out of tune

            with just deserts and fair rewards of strife:

If life holds seeds of death, might death hold seeds of life?