BRIAN
THORPE (read above by Jonathan Vos Post)
The Days that Follow
Mirth
Christmas
trees lie discarded on parkways, tossed into dumpsters, left to moulder
on
heaps of compost.
Joyful
lights and gold paper stars adorned them just a few weeks ago
They
glowed in a panoply of foyers, living rooms and frosted windows.
Their
embracing warmth was rich and welcome promising merriment, surprise,
a
bounty of gifts for expectant children, eggnog toasts to good health and fair
fortune,
voices lifted in songs of harbinger angels, and
perhaps
another chance at redemption.
Now,
the so-called evergreens turn grey and brown in the wake of exalted days.
They
rest on their sides like the casualties of some nameless battle.
Clinging
wistfully to their brittle branches are strands of tenacious tinsel
set
fluttering by the occasional breeze, as if in reminiscence of happier,
more
hopeful hours.
Lying
beside them, no less forlorn, are the remains of holiday wreaths.
While
the trees held court, they held sway, greeting us cheerily from coffered
doorways
as
we juggled gifts with one hand and rang chiming doorbells with the other.
Now
they seem funereal with drooping red bows hanging from their orbs like the
frowns
of
mournful faces.
In
time, of course they'll be swept up to make way for spring, for
summer
and the heady distractions of each.
The
saddening images will be forgotten in the sun-drenched hues
of
tumbling, fertile days,
and
their fleeting reminders of brief mortality will vanish
along
with their lessons.
Then
the world will turn over, and once again, to the crackle of Yule logs,
fresh
trees will stand tall and festive.
The
scarlet bowed wreaths will warmly welcome new visitors bearing
gifts.
The
poignancies of aftermath, the long evasive hope of
salvation
and the tenuous threads of faith will melt like ice in a multitude
of
punch bowls and toddies.
And
so it will be until the somber hand of late winter beckons.
The
trees will lie naked and dry once more on a host of curbside parkways,
Desolate
and speechless, deprived of eulogy, and sparsely adorned
with
meager strands of tinsel .....................in the days that follow mirth.
