Momma makes the Christmas tree,
tiny-bulb lights-clad

with red ribbons curling
across it. Green fibres mingling

with red baubles dangling like
muted jingle bells. Momma plumbs

the Christmas tree with the window side –
proud of her love of the sky.

That amity of our white-florescent
living room and the gleaming rays

of an harmattan sun, allying with the
tiny blinks of red, blue and sometimes

yellow glow on its hinged branches.
She would unwittingly stare

at the pyramid of the prelit tree –
hands akimbo; amazed how her work

of perfection meets nature. Or perhaps
would ask us how lovelier it is now

than before. We could always adore it –
that totem of our Christmas ambience.

Tega would tap its wire – playing with it
like she does with a smarting tail of an

unlucky mouse. She likes the tree’s
electric meowing of Christmas songs

it caroled. And then, Momma
places our Noel gifts at the feet of the

tree except when Amy’s curiosity
molds a reason for them to be hidden –

anticipating until the day of Christmas.
Momma adorns its feets with multi-hued

Christmas cards from episodic well-
wishers. Much care would Momma share

to a yuletide thing that would soon be
in fractions by the 2nd day of a new year.

Lights, camera, click! Behind our Eiffel
Tower – architecting picture cheers.

This lighted tree still stands six foot tall
ere the dim window glass of a fogged

moon hanging atop strung electric poles,
ribbons and balloons. And yet,

Popman is not yet back.