My dragon tree carries a NOBLE, if unusual, SHAPE. Its limbs are spare; they twist and twine. When I got it, an inheritance from a friend, it made me sad. Its appearance seemed TERSE, as if a CURSE had been put on it years before. Not willing to give up on it, I tended it carefully. Responding to this care, it has begun to flourish. It has grown more beautiful with increasing numbers of long, thin fronds that are deepening in color. Now, it seems worthy of its name, like a ancient dragon, ready to dispense wisdom to those who will listen.

Georg’ann

Large purple potter’s BENCH
standing by the Christmas tree.
Made in secret, carried in alone.
Always the SCOPE of your holiday
efforts were CAUSE for undoing
an old CURSE barring celebration.

That first tree you sneaked
into my apartment while
I was at class. Floor to ceiling.
The time you swooped me
away from them,
drove us twelve hours to the sea.
Once a full set of dishes in Easter
pastels, a basket weave pattern.
An eve of takeout Chinese on a blanket
under twinkle light and pine bough.

Year after year your elixir entered,
making me once again the child
at my paternal grandparents
peaking through the cracks
waiting for the doors to open
into the splendor of tree, pretty
packages, the stuffed giraffe
taller than me. Cookies iced,
accented with elegant silver balls.
Laughter of cousins. Singing.
She who was filled with magic.

It was the last holiday.
Then we left the kingdom.
My mother and I traveling far
with nothing but two satchels.
She attempted, unsuccessfully,
to escape her fate. We wandered
dark woods. I met the woodsman.
He gave me a tree.

Heather