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"And in shadow behind me, a primitive IV / To keep the show going." — from a poem by James Merrilll

Happy Holidays, everyone! It's that time of year. Every year as our Christmas tree begins to lose its life, I always think of this poem ("Christmas Tree" [1995]) by James Merrill, below. It simultaneously destroys me and gives me a sense of hopeful ongoingness. The comparison to a loved one dying of AIDS lies just under the surface, there… but not a forced reading, just another layer for those who see it. I see it. And that's part of what destroys me.

For more poems, visit the PoetryFoundation.com article that lists some contemporary poems for the holidays (also see below). Many of them are also about Christmas trees. Funny how that's become the poet's subject so often when it comes to this holiday. Do you have a favorite holiday poem to share? Please add in the comments!

CHRISTMAS TREE, by James Merrilll

To be

Brought down at last

From the cold sighing mountain

Where I and the others

Had been fed, looked after, kept still,

Meant, I knew—of course I knew—

That it would be only a matter of weeks,

That there was nothing more to do.

Warmly they took me in, made much of me,

The point from the start was to keep my spirits up.

I could assent to that. For honestly,

It did help to be wound in jewels, to send

Their colors flashing forth from vents in the deep

Fragrant sable that cloaked me head to foot.

Over me then they wove a spell of shining—

Purple and silver chains, eavesdripping tinsel,

Amulets, milagros: software of silver,

A heart, a little girl, a Model T,

Two staring eyes. The angels, trumpets, BUD and BEA

(The children's names) in clownlike capitals,

Somewhere a music box whose tiny song

Played and replayed I ended before long

By loving. And in shadow behind me, a primitive IV

To keep the show going. Yes, yes, what lay ahead

Was clear: the stripping, the cold street, my chemicals

Plowed back into Earth for lives to come—

No doubt a blessing, a harvest, but one that doesn't bear,

Now or ever, dwelling upon. To have grown so thin.

Needles and bone. The little boy's hands meeting

About my spine. The mother's voice: Holding up wonderfully!

No dread. No bitterness. The end beginning. Today's

Dusk room aglow

For the last time

With candlelight.

Faces love lit,

Gifts underfoot.

Still to be so poised, so

Receptive. Still to recall, to praise.