tired hands unwrap the artificial tree
the one bought forty three years ago
with pre-fab ornaments, lights, garland.
It re-enters the world after underground rest
like gifts in a time capsule, it’s beautiful.
Psuedo-limbs stretch to once again welcome Christ
with the cherub-faced angel serenely watching from above, knowingly
as you struggle with swollen joints,
“These ornaments are so damned intricate”
but your presentation is perfect, unaging
and insults dull skin and back pains
if only you could banish entropy
but you are the ehausted mother of the infant
unable to ignore His birthday