Remove the angel from your tip,
place the sailboat, the zebra, the wooden star
in a cardboard box,

cradle your creche of frosted twigs,
the shepherds, the kings, the mom and dad
and the baby, too,

strip your arms of lights,
suck your holy needles off the floor,
lug your body cross the field of white,

lay your trunk to rest by the old stone wall,
where your brothers and sisters
lie side by side, 

brown spots
on a bed
of freshly fallen snow.

Author: Robert Giebisch

Photo: Jess Bailey on Unsplash

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