<html aria-label="message body"><head><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body style="overflow-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;"><div dir="auto" style="overflow-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;"><span style="font-size: 22px;">Taking Down The Tree</span><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“Give me some light!” cries Hamlet’s</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">uncle midway through the murder</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">of Gonzago. “Light! Light!” cry scattering</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">courtesans. Here, as in Denmark,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">it’s dark at four, and even the moon</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">shines with only half a heart.</span><br><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">The ornaments go down into the box:</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">the silver spaniel, My Darling</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">on its collar, from Mother’s childhood</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">in Illinois; the balsa jumping jack</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">my brother and I fought over,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">pulling limb from limb. Mother</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">drew it together again with thread</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">while I watched, feeling depraved</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">at the age of ten.</span><br><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">With something more than caution</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I handle them, and the lights, with their</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">tin star-shaped reflectors, brought along</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">from house to house, their pasteboard</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">toy suitcase increasingly flimsy.</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Tick, tick, the desiccated needles drop.</span><br><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">By suppertime all that remains is the scent</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">of balsam fir. If it’s darkness</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">we're having, let it be extravagant.</span><br><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>- Jane Kenyon</span></div></div></body></html>