Glimmer
The species known as Christmas tree of course
Was born of artificiality
When mated with some sentimental force,
Weak against the grain of reality
Perhaps, but strong enough to glitter through
Our harsher (even brutal) life of facts
And win our hearts by saying something true
In spite of soppiness and, yes, the axe
Of plain prosaic circumstance, which tends
To cut down all our dreams. Although we trim
This evergreen with precious frills, it ends
Up on the curb, beside abandoned whim;
Yet there some tinsel clings to it and glints.
It does not speak of hope. It only hints.