Art by Norman E. Masters
The branches of the Christmas tree have bent. No one has shared the brief magnificence with me. Tonight I'll put away the tired ornaments, burn colored candles in the dooryard drift of snow, burn this year's tree in purifying fire, watch smoke lift sky in drifting, scented wreaths. Who knows? The blaze may rise a burning star among the bright cold lights of other worlds and guide the three wise kings to me to tell again in these lost hours, of Mary's child's divinity.