It’s dawn thisChristmas morning, 2016.
Here in Texas, it’s seventy degrees as
red fingers of dawn streak through the trees.
The Sycamore leaves, dried brown and crinkly, still cling to its fifty foot span,
each passing breeze sends one or two more drifting below where they
gather informally like the early arrivals at a cocktail party.
The leaf man will wait until the party is over
Inside the Christmas tree is festooned with ornaments that were gathered over a lifetime,
as children grew and no longer scurry with excitement before dawn
to search for gifts beneath its boughs.
The lights glow
casting colorful patterns on the
smooth porcelain tiles,
entertaining this aging woman
with bittersweet memories
of six plus decades
of Christmases past.
Nancilynn Saylor 2016