My Father Taught Me How to Find the Magic of Trees
Ifeoluwa Ayandele
Don’t call me broken because I write my father into this poem & carry borders on my shoulder girdle & pray I will understand the truth about Christmas trees. Last December, my father grew a Christmas tree in our front porch & lit candles around it & asked me to dance around the light, for herein lays glory. My father says trees are the glory of man & god is the glory of trees. I danced around the Christmas tree like boys scout around camp fire. But I didn’t know that every initiation begins with a dance & the road to glory is in the skin of brokenness. Meanwhile, when I carry my skin across foreign borders, I carry a Christmas tree in my eyes, for my eyes have seen 3
