The Christmas Tree

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It is older than me

The little raffia tree

With red wooden berries.

No live Christmas trees

In wartime London.

It means so much to her.

Every year it comes out

Lovingly tinseled.

The little fairy--

A plastic baby doll--

Still wearing the lace tutu

I made when I was six.

Ragged but still here

The tree speaks of survival

Against the odds

Victory over darkness

Light reborn.

It reminds her too

Of the years of bombs, ration books

And blossoming love

Years that for her

Are redolent of Christmas pudding

Hanukkah candles and kisses.

Blackout years, foreshadowing magical births,

Livy, Katy, Ros and Nick,

Tiny hands fashioning

Papier mâché cribs

And clumsy lace tutus.

Gifts hidden in raffia fronds.

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    About this Entry

    This page contains a single entry by Alakananda Ma published on January 9, 2014 4:00 PM.

    Ma's New Year's Letter 2014 was the previous entry in this blog.

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