I return to my childhood
on the old Zimmer place
where the best things happened
to my brothers and me . . .

the big day often dawned
shrouded in crystalline gray
the flakes goose-down soft
each falling into its place

nestled next to another
as if predetermined by an
Artist bent on decorating
an otherwise desolate land.

Dad’s 1951 russet-red pickup
hauled a mint-spiced Douglas fir
the four of us chose and cut.
It took a long time to decide

which tree was perfect enough
for such an honor. All this returns
to me, in these my latter years . . .
the truck, ice-sequined trees and love.


© by Michael Escoubas.
Used with the author's permission.