putting out the Christmas tree

I put the Christmas tree out. It stands at attention in the snow bank on the tree lawn. It was a good tree, had served us well. To leave it on it’s side, forlorn seemed unworthy disrespect.

I remember going out with my father to pick a tree. We would drive out to the country were a farmer would let us go across his land for a few dollars paid.

We would always find one that had a flaw, not the prettiest, but something that made it special. Maybe a bald spot, or a branch bending the wrong way.

I would cut only a full pulls before my child arms tired, and my father would finish and I would help him drag it back in the snow to home.

My sisters would complain that we never got the right tree, but they never understood, it was just the right one.

So I guess in so many words I am saying that in your poem is the power to bring forth old memories.