Needles (Poem)
The
New Year
hasn’t yet begun,
I’m stumbling too soon
Over needles and branches.
Amid recycling bins and garbage cans
Discarded Christmas trees block the
Way.
It’s
Not even
A new year
And I’m stumbling over
Needles stuck on branches
Of Christmas trees put out for trash.
I
Feel
The sharp
Need to redeem
Those curbed, coldly ditched
Trees.
Felled
A second time
When taken from stands
Once installed in cozier rooms,
They now lie horizontal, stripped heroes
Of command proximity, receding holiday cheer,
Their medals returned to storage rooms and closets,
Their cones pointing here or there, like compass needles on a sidewalk
Rose.
A
Burst
Of sun, brief,
Bright blue-skied
Arctic cold, extinguishing
All the dampness and moisture
From the now shimmering winter air,
Makes their branches, still bristling with green,
Cast lattice-work shadows in all directions. Then,
The weather changes again: clouds bring a dry layer of snow.
They bring warmer weather, too, and the dusted white layers melt,
‘Ere the cold night once more gives fleeting permanence to what was changed
From solid to fluid, by turning it back to glittering
Ice.
I
Want
To tell these trees
(I want to tell myself…)
That it’s okay, that it’s not through
Some fault of theirs they were too soon
Trashed before the epiphany date that ritual demands,
Consumed and forgotten by celebrants who, going through the motions,
Have lost the custom, knowing no longer the rules of
Sacrifice.