December 8

Picking out a wreath at Clancy’s 
in the brisk elbows of light
I smell mountains you love
these firs grew in snowy gorges
I skied among them once
through dark unbroken boughs 
under the moon, unresolved and scattered
I heard the ghostly thump of snow 
slump off the arms of trees
branches bobbing as it fell
like someone with their hands 
weighing my presence
as I drifted down and through.

The one we pick is a wheel of fragrance 
boughs and cones
destined for a curb come January.