We can create impermanence today.
(Foot dragging still, though it’s halfway through December)
Dust down the tree and wrap old boxes up in tat.
I will find the lights, bring in some green
to make it seem
that Christmas might yet happen.
But you know deep down I hate the fraud
of putting lights in windows when
there’s not a card bought.
And I can bear the itching to make the house look clean,
to tuck the fripping out of sight,
will swallow down the urge to tidy all the ribboning away
and grin inanely at the Christmas ads
to see your face reflected in a ball of glass,
tottering delicate on a scented bough,
gazing wide at all the room made broad
in the convex spill of light.