Archive
12/24/09 - (2)
The Tree
What an exhilarating blood-rush flood it was, To be back in the woods nestling the quiet boys' camp, Trudging over its snow-packed slopes, in boots.
And now that I'm at the cabin again, I've one task to get done before I call this afternoon complete, Molt my layers of clothing, take a rest from my labors.
On the west side of the yard descending to the frozen lake, I saw down a slender, supple, seventy-some-inch white pine, Small but perfectly proportioned,
Which will make a fine addition to the living room, Give the habitation a strong, sweet scent of Christmas — A tree all the more festive without lights, ornaments, tinsel.
It's fortuitous that, amidst the basement's dusty clutter, I locate a rusted red stand, its four green legs intact. My tiny conifer fits neatly into its grasp.
Having disrobed to my skinny six feet of chilled nakedness, Finished getting warm, in a long-drawn shower, To the core of my blood's gradually quickening flow,
I realize that my tree and I Are approximately the same height, Though we're decidedly dissimilar in shape and weight.
More important, we possess something ineluctable, A mystic trait that binds us, in a brotherly tie, To the same creative energy — nature the mother to us both.
12/24/09 - (2)
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