This day is like the road,
running away as I ride
in the back of the truck,
braced up and nursing
a sloshing cup of brandy,
sweetened with berries.
This tree is like a birth
laid heavy on my legs,
cut down to race a season
and run a greenness,
a last-year nest falling loose
yet telling tales
of home.
All around, the pines
keep long the last light
with a wind song of hail
to the road before—
behind? The road I rode
while hauled away.
What mystery! Bringing home
a Christmas tree;
To tell of life in death,
to die even as it tells,
as sap runs from a wound,
as a summer-sweet cup
is emptied.
I love it!
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