THE CHRISTMAS RITUAL

Alone at the grave, she wipes
leafy snow from her son's name,
pulls a pine along the birch-lined path
to a wooden stand planted in snow.


She leans forward touching these ornaments--
winter scenes worn smooth
from outdoor hangings,
reindeer without legs,
and a smudged-eyed Santa with half a beard.


Under the green, weighted branches
in a place more quiet than breath,
her first child looks into
whatever he was before life.


Snow falls on the back of her hand.
She closes her pliers, tightens each wire's grip,
studies the globes, one by one,
holds them in her palms
like a baby's face
the face of another son waiting at the window
for his mother to return.


Or like her own
now very far away--
held briefly, a moon,
severed in shadows
against the granite stone.