I slide between narrow rows of pines
crunching needles under soft feet
and note the paleness of the horizon
through green and tangled branches.
Christmas is all I smell:
eggnog, wrapping paper, chopped oak
burning a red flavor through the house.
I step past the framed columns of trees
and stand at the edge of a field;
the world looks broken from here,
caught under these dreary eyes,
frozen in shambles until the spring.
I wish I could speak of the sun—
registers shooting warm air into gloves,
the heat keeping us safe for tomorrow.
Bare fingers chilled numb by the wind,
my pockets loaded with pine cones,
I call myself the walking tree
as I step through the empty field
pushing seeds into the snow and ice.
A quiet warmth sets through my veins
as the sap and dust sticks to my clothes
and nothing is left to do but wait;
out here, memories are never certain,
but maybe I will not die alone.