Our Tree
Our Tree
The green tree in the box,
kept in the attic,
is in pieces.
Not because it is dead,
or firewood,
but a project
to be assembled.
Much like our life,
from the beginning of I do,
lovingly placed together,
each day of each year,
with patience
and hope.
Father brings it down.
Mother opens it up.
Together they build,
what only God can grow.
Then as one we decorate.
My brothers and I,
taking turns,
low and high.
Reaching,
stars to the heavens,
a sweet manger below…
Christmas.
He is everything,
in Our home.
Tradition is a deal.
Not small or tiny,
but big and large.
Father would have a real tree,
like when he was a kid,
but we saved the money,
and adopted a foreign child.
He belongs to all of us,
We are his family now.
We don’t know where he is,
this night,
or most nights in the dark,
but God…
He does,
and sends;
His Might Light,
far brighter then
our tree top star,
that ever shines,
even from afar.
Copyright © Ann Foster | Year Posted 2019
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