I"m not going to write
a poem today, I thought,
until my dog started to
bark in protest.
I tried one about the
holiday trance
we are all in,
"getting and spending,"
but that is old hat,
and then the phone
rings, and it feels
like it's my daughter,
but it was the
wrong number.
And sometimes the
honeymoon is over
and friends tell you
what they really think
and you feel like shrinking
to the size of a
head of a pin,
wishing you didn't say
or believe this or that,
and then you escape to the
country to see how
the trees survived
their first snow of
the season and you
see them basking
in the sun, and loving
the bitter breeze, with
their dark brown bark
glorified by the bright
blue sky and accented by
the fluffy white clouds.
On the whole, the trees
always stand up straight,
don't they?
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