Each year I shroud them in their bubble wrap,
The kings next to the shepherds and their sheep.
The donkey’s head lies in Melchior’s lap;
I settle them for their long winter’s sleep.
The ox’s horn grazes the angel’s wing,
The span outspread although he is supine.
It’s their long, silent night. No choirs sing.
I look about me for the ball of twine.
I keep the Family in the living room
Sequestered in a corner near the hearth.
They will still be there when the crocus bloom
Or we twine grape vines for an autumn wreath.
The others rest in place till I remember
To resurrect them early next December.
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