Tis the Season
Cold snow melts down
my hot throat
We’re smelling fresh pine
not from some aerosol can
but of roots from the earth
as he slices away years of
maturity, landing on top of our car–
Oh Christmas tree
I can taste the wood floating
in the air; crunchy splinters
on my tongue
Holly, berries with red bows
adorn the front door
December outfit, winter decor
The lights
a bright trail in our indoor forest
leading little hands to the gifts below
Objects fly in circles
I juggle them fast
a holiday jester–
turkey
stuffing
tape
scissors
ornaments
paper.
Batteries for toys
kids screaming for joy
relatives who annoy
this season’s a ploy
that’s sent me into poverty...
Copyright © Grace Hunter | Year Posted 2006
|