Christmas Lights

The same time every year
I climb the ladder

Peer into the gloom 

And in the space

Just enough room

For my blind reach -

An attic tomb!

A bag!

And so, every year

A great untangling begins,

Bandoliers of crystal, chord,

And trim,

Tumble like clumped hair.

We work the long unwinding,

Hunt spare bulbs to repair,

Stretch and space and hang

And stretch again,

Then wait for darkness when,

The batteries might kick in.

Call it sentimental -

A merely annual form,

Frivolous, perfunctory.

And yet, this mild 

Awakening,

Slight beacons for

An only child,

Are pale markers

(Though faintly gleaned)

For another story.