This seablue fir that rode the mountain storm <br />Is swaddled here in splints of tin to die. <br />Sofas around in chubby velvet swarm; <br />Onlooking cabinets glitter with flat eye; <br />Here lacquer in the branches runs like rain <br />And resin of treasure starts from every vein. <br /> <br /> <br />Light is a dancer here and cannot rest. <br />No tanagers or jays are half so bright <br />As swarms of fire that deep in fragrance nest <br />In jungles of the gilt exotic night <br />Where melons hang like moonstone. White above <br />Rises that perfect star, the sign of love. <br /> <br /> <br />On carpets’ fairy turf, in rainbow dark, <br />Here once the enchanted children laid their heads, <br />Reached for the floating moon above the park, <br />And all their hopes were simple blues and reds. <br />Beneath the electric halo, none could see <br />Swords in the ankle of the victim tree. <br /> <br /> <br />Each named a patron star: Arthur said green <br />For August in the country; and Betty blue <br />For swinging and the Florida surf; while Jeanne <br />Decided gold. One horoscope was true: <br />The star of Donald low and lava-red— <br />Enlisted Donald, in Australia dead. <br /> <br /> <br />Our lives were bound to sorcery and night. <br />Zodiacs crumble on the boughs of rust <br />For every child is gone. Some burned too bright <br />And now lie broken in the bins of dust; <br />And some, a fortunate few, adventured far <br />And found assurance in the perfect star.<br /><br />John Frederick Nims<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/christmas-tree-16/
