Our Christmas Tree
I love the smell of the forest, rising from each branch and needle,
It is the scent of a tiptoeing fawn, a knobby pinecone, a red cardinal and a crystal blue sky.
I watch the way our son holds the top of the tree with his strong gloved hand
And my husband lies on the crunchy snow as he slowly cuts it down with the old saw.
I admire the way they work together, passing the rope across the roof and over the tree.
I love the tree standing proudly in our house
With its best side facing our sofa and chair and piano.
I laugh at our cats sniffing this bit of the wild forest and pouncing like little cougars,
Attacking the strings of golden lights as we test the bulbs
And jumping in every box of green and red and gold.
I love opening the tissue paper and unveiling the memories:
The faded paper reindeer and crooked pompom Santa made by our daughters,
The wooden skier for my husband, the little dog for our son all those years ago,
The miniature schoolhouse from my days as a teacher,
A green felt mitten lovingly stitched by my mother.
And when it is quiet,
Very best of all I love to turn off all the lights except the tree
And I watch the tree begin to glow
With the love of Christmas past
And the magic of Christmas future.
Colleen G. Pasquale
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