The Christmas Ladder
It’s the light that makes the ladder not what it seems,
light and ornament,
a silver bird cage where a paint bucket often sits,
rungs for work boots turned to shelves
for wooden trains, painted elephants,
the mundane transformed by golden bells on a hinge.
white lights cross, and cross again,
leaving Santas without place to hide or nestle in
we’re changed ourselves by all this sweet tinsel on a string.
the drip of gilded dragons, silken doves,
the dance of footless angels
on a ladder transfigured by their glow.