Hunting Pine Trees 1958

Fir trees lined the sidewalk
On Vanderbilt Avenue
Clinton Hill
Brooklyn.

Spruce pines
Chopped
Up north from New England forests.
My homeland.
Trees
For families and friends
To celebrate Christmas

Breathing the fragrance of evergreens,
As
The tree elves
Elysaah, Ruth, and Bobby
Hock trees and wreaths
Working hard
Whilst I laze
On
My yuletide throne
Surrounded by
The trees
Eyes closed
Dreaming
Of 1958
My father walking
With ax in hand.
Into the woods outside Gorham Maine.
Snow on the ground. My brother and me
The two of us
In tow
In search of the perfect tree.
My mothers and the younger other us
Back in the Ford Station Wagon
Heat running
Full blast
Windows closed
On a cold afternoon.

Our breaths hang on the air
Paralysed by the chill.
Us wearing red hats
Red mittens too.
It is deer hunting season
With my father hunting for a tree

The land belongs to someone.
Not us.
My father is very honest
Except for tree hunting season.
He was born in Maine
As was his father
And his father before him.
They know the rules.
One tree a family.

I remember
My older brother
Before
A tree taller than my father.
Our tree.
Spit in his hands
We stand back.
Thwock
Thwock
Thwock.
The tree falls down
To the snowy ground.
Sap bleeding from the stump.
Leaking the scent of pine
Into the near winter air.

Same as today on Vanderbilt Avenue.
Hundreds of miles away from the Maine woods
Decades distant from my youth.
Clouds overhead
Colder by the minute.
My breath on the air.
The scent of a hundred pine trees
The same
As The Maine Woods
1958
An Evergreen memory
From long
Ago

Now
Winter
Coming
Soon.
As always
Wintah
On Clinton Hill
And up in Maine.
Especially Fort Kent.
Merry Yulemas.
One and all.