PARTICLES to WAVES

MAGIC TREE

We’re wrapping lights around the Maple.
Tightly, so when night alights outside

we won’t see a cloud, but the tree,
her gracious, spreading skeleton.

When you mention that across the street,
earlier, Steve hung his decorations —

icicles framing his roof — I remember
you’ve already told me this. I didn’t grasp

until now, making small circles
around the branches, that Steve can’t see.

His effort astounds me: climbing
his ladder — owning a ladder,

finding it, placing it under the roof
in one spot rather than another — holding

a glowing strand above his head, his eyes
blind to what his hands do.

Steve won’t see the house he brightens
for his wife, his children who visit,

his grandkids, the neighbors. But he
knows a similar vision, maybe

from childhood, outside and cold
before dinner, Dad proud on the ladder,

Mom outside to check progress,
petting the dog’s brow, pulling on mittens.

My vision blurs imagining any of this:
the joy presence knows, well after eyes

stop seeing anything in front of them.

-Laura Scheffler Morgan, 12/6-10/17