Blue Spruce

Blue spruce blue Christmas

Pine, beer and turkey juices simmering

atmospheric steam building

Nana’s hot kitchen

only for the hard core

blue smoke twists off the end

of three cigarettes gathering in layers.

It pays to be short if breathing is necessary

while stealing date nut bread

and its cool cream cheese spread.

Black and blues neatly concealed

special cut glass sparkles, table shines

lifting porcelain reflections

to the sublime laid to rest for us on

crisp pure white table clothes.

Don’t fear spilled gravy

or deep red cranberry sauce

we eat to live here and live to eat

and afterward

black and blues disappear

as red knuckles wring out years

of excess pain

bleaching and rinsing,

starching and ironing

the linens, all of them

layered in tissue paper flat

put away in dark drawers

that smell of freshness.

Sitting around with coffee, cigarettes and cards

the women argue over what really happened

none of the men could handle it

my uncle, the youngest son

in his 68 blue corvette

drove me to the pines of Mount Grace

showed me things pure and true

like spruce seedlings starting themselves

in the cool moist safe place of his refuge

just before he moved out West for good.

February 23, 2011