Tonight's Poet Corner: Sonnet Solstice #222
My Mother's Christmas Tree
by Belinda Roddie
My mother's Christmas tree was very small,
not even reaching the top of my knee,
and propped on a table against the wall
in the living room. That sad little tree
was hardly decorated, and its star
was lopsided atop it. I could tell
that my mother hadn't tried very hard
to do anything festive. It was Hell
in her mind right now. She could barely think
straight, talk in complete sentences, or sleep
without pain creeping in. She'd turn to drink
as if it'd ease the agony. I'd keep
an eye on her in case she needed me,
but otherwise, I sat beside the tree.
by Belinda Roddie
My mother's Christmas tree was very small,
not even reaching the top of my knee,
and propped on a table against the wall
in the living room. That sad little tree
was hardly decorated, and its star
was lopsided atop it. I could tell
that my mother hadn't tried very hard
to do anything festive. It was Hell
in her mind right now. She could barely think
straight, talk in complete sentences, or sleep
without pain creeping in. She'd turn to drink
as if it'd ease the agony. I'd keep
an eye on her in case she needed me,
but otherwise, I sat beside the tree.
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