I remember a January years ago,
yet barely, you see I was only five or six,
it was the day our Christmas tree
would find itself out in the cold wintry mix;
Sitting under a dying branch
pines needles raining down on my head,
not another creature stirring
again and last time, a Christmas tale read;
Hours later, like one on death’s row
it was led to the curb with a chilling swish,
down the white mile you heard a whisper
I believe the tree’s last dying wish;
Suddenly understanding what it was asking
I began to beg dad which caused some strife,
yet knowing I couldn’t let the executioner pick it up
when it’s death could give another one life;
So we took a ride to Long Island's south shore
Jones beach, no crowds that day only our grief,
stripped of lights, tinsel and our oohs and aahs
replaced by the eroding coast's sigh of relief ;
I believe winter whispered back an earful of wisdom
while a trail of brown needles led to the trunk of our car,
a wise sage, older then even the Christmas tree
knew that only death springs life from behind it’s icy bars.
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