Praise the tree as we throw
its branches into the fire,
the needles once green
now brilliant, now ash,
and praise the flames
that consume. Praise
the small hands that
toss the old boughs
and the squeals as the blaze
blazes higher. Praise
the empty space
in the room where all
we see is absence
of tree. Praise the darkness—
that canvas for light
that invites us
to find in ourselves
something to burn.
It’s a cold world.
What are we willing
to offer?