Christmas Mold

Still I seek resurrection
from mold of Christmas
past all hope of recovery
even in the agnostic face.

Small trees bedecked
with ornaments on hooks
sit in the corner of mind
tucked with bells and rings.

There once were times
when faith and hope
had but little effort
to accomplish joy.

There mayn't ever again
be the pure wonderment
that comes with a season
dedicated to cheerful spirit.

Let us go to the tree farm!
We will wander in the crisp
odor of fir and pine grown
to cut for someone's delight.

Seeing these yuletide martyrs
should make us festive again
though the useful times ahead
cannot remove the wreath.

This garland weighs heavy,
coiled in heraldic noose,
but festooned with holly
and mistletoe it has texture.

So life yearns for merriment
while we sweep the hearth
clean of the ashes left behind:
last year's desiccated cheer.