Each Year, I Plug in the Light

The tree flares on, but you are not here in the light.

The wind disturbs the leaves, and the hallway air turns cold.

I keep replaying that night in the bulbs' bare light.

Each year I say I will forget, then I plug in the light.

The room folds back into us, the same old scene retold.

The tree flares on, but you are not here in the light.

Like waves on black glass, the shadows climb toward height.

Each star of a bloom on the branch looks driven hard from the cold.

I keep replaying that night in the bulbs' bare light.

The cord pulls tight, as if memory drags it toward light.

I talk out loud to the space where your laughing face grew old.

The tree flares on, but you are not here in the light.

You used to lift the star, your hand unsure of its height.

I watched your fingers search, afraid the branch would not hold.

I keep replaying that night in the bulbs' bare light.

Each needle clings, lit green, trying hard to stay in the light.

All it can do is hang on, then let go and grow old.

The tree flares on, but you are not here in the light.

I keep replaying that night in the bulbs' bare light.