Shawn L. Bird

The dog stares mesmerized

past the old bulbs wrapped around the blue spruce, those steady, dependable glass bulbs that have illuminated twenty Christmases,

to the lilac bushes where the new micro-bulbs change from white to colour, fade, flash, flicker, urge us to celebrate with their “Party on!” dance,

but this year, putting them out

used all the energy we have,

and there’s no irony in the number of blue bulb strings wrapped and draped around the door.