Each year we tramp in crusty snow
to find the perfect tree
the icon of our celebration.
The woods hold many.
We circle likely prospects.
spruce? fir? pine? hemlock?
We offer loud opinions.
We vote and choose.
This year’s rural sylvan search’s
in paradox with images
engraved by visuals of past months:
· a Chinese student with a tank
· barbed wire souvenirs from Hungary
· lines of emigrant cars in Germany
· Polish workers massed at Mass
· hosed friends and peace signs on the Wall
· Czech students in white headbands
· a novelist banished by death threat
· a beach that was an island
· a man rescued from a pancaked bridge
This year our Tannenbaum
we dig again and haul by sleigh,
our small dog leaping in our tracks,
from woods to candles, lights, and song.
We give crude thanks for signs of peace,
a timeless, small, old-fashioned branch.
© Jane Piirto. All Rights Reserved.