Suspended from the evergreens
amorphous limbs, the glistening
red bulb spins.
As if a tiny spider were
spinning its spittle
tightly round that shiny dome.
With its fishing hook sunk
into the skin of a fissure,
it awaits to be packaged
again. Starring out with comatose
eyes, the bulb hibernates beneath
the creaky wooden stairs
until next year, when it
can be spun in the web
of tradition once again.
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