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Still offline. Still happy with that. I’ve had a perfectly poetic day, and yet I have no poem shards to work with, yet, at least not that I can recognize. I got up early to go get my blood drawn for routine labs, went to the grocery store, and then came back and HP and I loaded up the girls to go Christmas tree hunting. We drove up a road we used to frequent, when we lived ten miles closer, and it was lovely. The Ds scared the daylights out of me by scampering close to the banks of a lightening fast creek (some of my poem friends now know exactly where we went to harvest our tree), but that was the only super anxious moment I had all day. We got a good one, I think. I’m going to write a Christmas Tree poem and call it good. I don’t know when I’ll get to post these, but it is nice to know that I can come back and fix them all I want until our internet provider decides to get back to us.

The Tree

We walk, looking for color and symmetry and the perfect hue and aroma. They run full on at the banks of a swollen glacial creek made river in this warmer-than-normal winter, and it is the only panicked minute of the day. When the search is on, for the tree, the tree of the season, the one bringing the magic, sight is a divining rod. The banks grow the greatest. The islands have been washed away in recent decades, and if it were possible to cross, there are many candidates there, but the roar is fast and cold, and keeps us up on the road. Doorways and ceilings have been measured against outstretched limbs and eyeballing, the bins and bags have been brought up from the basement, and the precious things have been given to the little ones to hang, and then placed again, by mothers who hold tight to memory, yes, we hold tight, maybe tightest against this one, this one day all piney and goldlit.
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So, if you can’t tell, we got a Christmas tree today. It was fun. Do y’all have tree-gathering traditions? If so, I’d like to hear them. Hugs, Poemfriends.

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