Boxing Day poem

The things we put away go quietly as if they never had voices to begin with. Empty spaces breathing out and our little tree liberated as we wind back in all our dreaming, a ball of lights connected briefly to the circuit. He is still thirsty and I give it to him, little alive thing. So are we, but there goes something that leaked like relief, packed away with ornaments and aired only sometimes, heavy like pudding. These days are real days, carved into finer points. He is so quiet standing it unnerves me. I water him a glass a day, struck with a commitment like rapture. Little alive thing. My hope for hope dries in the roof, pressed against ageless baubles. Betrayal blooms on my tongue tasting of pine.