Christmas Trees

How should I now recall

the icy lace of the pane

like a sheet of cellophane,

or the skies of alcohol

poured over the saltbox town?

On that stony New England tableau,

the halo of falling snow

glared like a waxy crown.

Through blue frozen lots

my giant parents strolled,

wrapped tight against the cold

like woolen Argonauts,

searching for that tall

perfection of Scotch pine

from the hundreds laid in line

like the dead at Guadalcanal.

The clapboard village aglow

that starry stark December

I barely now remember,

or the brutish ache of snow

burning my face like quicklime.

Yet one thing was still missing.

I saw my parents kissing,

perhaps for the last time.