Half of me wants to throw away
This angel with damaged wings,
Stored in the attic at Yuletide's end
With leftover Christmas things.
Half of me sees that the gold on her robe
Is tarnished beyond repair,
And obviously the sheen is gone
From her halo-crowned, golden hair.
But half of me treasures the memories
That crowd in as I hold her near,
Memories of all the joys she has seen
From her treetop year after year.
So, I climbed the ladder, and put her there
In what is her rightful place,
Forgetting the injuries the years have brought--
She still has her angel face.
Though the glow she once had
Through the years may depart,
She retains, as always, her hold on the heart.