Cutting Down Christmas Trees the Day after Thanksgiving
I roll out of the car
looking like a marshmallow
on a short flimsy stick,
ready for roasting.
one pair wool gloves
one pair work gloves
blue ski beanie
one thermal shirt
two coats
denim jeans—too small
soggy wool socks
running shoes
Everyone else wears boots and
I didn’t want to bring mine. Ugly boots.
When I take off my shoes I am afraid
I will find ten shriveled raisins, no toes.
Dad’s red ball cap could be a bird
flitting through the trees
but it’s too see-your-breath-cold for birds
and flitting.
Jubilant, Marie yells—“I Found It!”
Her words trudge towards us
or maybe it’s just my steps
that feel like trudging.
We weave clumsily over under
around the woods,
we surround the spruce.
Stunning slender spruce.
The chainsaw burps and grumbles until
high on its own fumes it roars and guffaws.
Dad smiles wicked
and in his eyes gleam red glass balls, a shining star…
the aspens whisper like neighborhood women
they condemn us
we drag our prize over logs to the road
a wake of pine needles trails behind
I roll out of the car
looking like a marshmallow
on a short flimsy stick,
ready for roasting.
one pair wool gloves
one pair work gloves
blue ski beanie
one thermal shirt
two coats
denim jeans—too small
soggy wool socks
running shoes
Everyone else wears boots and
I didn’t want to bring mine. Ugly boots.
When I take off my shoes I am afraid
I will find ten shriveled raisins, no toes.
Dad’s red ball cap could be a bird
flitting through the trees
but it’s too see-your-breath-cold for birds
and flitting.
Jubilant, Marie yells—“I Found It!”
Her words trudge towards us
or maybe it’s just my steps
that feel like trudging.
We weave clumsily over under
around the woods,
we surround the spruce.
Stunning slender spruce.
The chainsaw burps and grumbles until
high on its own fumes it roars and guffaws.
Dad smiles wicked
and in his eyes gleam red glass balls, a shining star…
the aspens whisper like neighborhood women
they condemn us
we drag our prize over logs to the road
a wake of pine needles trails behind
2 comments:
I remember when you wrote that! I still like it, mostly because you include me in it. Jim feels neglected that he was not included, but he wants to say his own piece too, so. maybe next year I'll reclaim that tradition for myself. I'm glad to have a fresh forest tree in my house, I admit it! but I do miss doing my own forest hunting. next year, next year.
JIM SAYS -
Here are a few lines you forgot in the poem.....
in the forest through the branches
infectious smile and laugh
fresh pine smell....or is it him?
who will carry the tree?
good thing we brought Jim
I'm going on vacation next year and sending someone else into the forest to get my tree...that is MY new tradition.
I love that Cath, what a peot you are.
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