Samples
SHEPHERDS
And there are shepherds abiding
in the fields, villages and valleys,
in throbbing cities, on snow-crusted mountains,
long and level plains, placid lakeshores,
and even on the heaving waves,
all keeping careful watch over their flocks,
their families and friends, parishioners
and patients, students, neighbors, clients,
customers and colleagues
by bleakest night and sun-dazzled day,
performing daily tasks without regard
for headlines or applause, and through
their work, their words,
proclaiming our dearest dream:
peace on this wonder-filled earth,
good will to all humankind.
CEDAR
Always cedar.
Fir trees didn't grow in Iredell County,
and George never considered pine or hemlock,
which suited me fine: I loved the scent of cedar
spicing the entire house from the very minute
those feathery branches ruffled through the door
until right after Christmas, when we flung
its carcass, picked as clean as chicken bones
outside where it could dry till fit for firewood.
In early years, he'd combine his search
for a tree with a hunting trip, return grinning,
tree on one shoulder, rabbits on the other.
Later, when whatever disease the doctors
couldn't find a name for drew the muscles
in his legs so tight he could barely walk--
lurched like a drunken sailor--he would drive
far out in the country, scanning the winter roadside
till he found a likely candidate, straight and full,
which he could manage to clamber to, cane
clasped in one hand, ax in the other .
Never paid or asked permission. Lord, why would he?
We were all tree-poor those days, wouldn't miss a cedar
more than a dandelion. Nobody'd thought
of using tillable land for Christmas trees.
When Hoover was still making promises,
who would have laid down a cherished dollar
for something to toss away after just a week?
When George got home, he'd nail two boards in an X
for the tree's support. I'd swath them with a blanket.
The girls would help him string the lights, then wind
cellophane garlands through the greenery.
Meanwhile I'd whip Lux flakes to a frothy lather;
dried on the branches, if you'd squint your eyes,
you'd swear that it was snow. Altogether,
it was some kind of pretty.
Eighteen years now, he's been gone. At first,
my boy still at home, I'd buy a tree--
resenting every dollar--fix it up
the best I could all by myself. Then later,
hoisting trees got to be beyond me.
I purchased one advertised as "everlasting,"
needles, branches, trunk--all aluminum.
Don't use lights, just big red satin balls.
The children, when they come, don't complain.
The grandchildren exclaim, "Red and silver!
Look at it shine!" And it lasts year after year--
not half the trouble of a woodland tree.
But I still miss the scent of cedar.
NINE YEARS OLD, AND ALL'S WELL
Just before dawn,
stars glint like bits of frost
in the velvet Christmas sky.
Inside, our Heatrola roars a toasty blast.
Cozy beneath the shelter of our cedar,
I inhale its spice and relish
the threads of silver glistening from its boughs,
exult in the treasure beneath:
Lone Ranger gun-and-holster for tomboy me,
baby doll and layette for my motherly sister,
a fuzzy teddy bear for baby brother,
a tumble of boxes bound in red-and-green mystery,
a stash of tangerines and chocolate kisses.
On the sofa, a broad smile on her rosy face
Mama perches in her flowerdy cotton robe.
Behind her, sipping black, black coffee,
Daddy grins from his recliner.
At his feet, Sister sits cross-legged, in dazed delight.
In that little room, happiness bubbles
like the hot chocolate simmering on the range;
its glow almost as dazzling
as the rainbowed rope of lights
spiraling to the tip of our aromatic tree.