"get up . . . be inspired"

winter, white. the snow falls again. the street stripes in gray and white, not yet black, the new snow is gracious and forgiving of the grime from the cars that zip by without caution or care.

dressed warmly, or attempting to do so and not quite succeeding, we chop down our own christmas tree and drag it through the snow to the wagon for a necessary ride, standing behind the tractor towards to the shaker, the workers, genderless, models for carhartt, rosy, though chapped, cheeked, unsmiling. they yank the trees from the wagon and shove them into the shaking machine. wordless, they carry the tree to be measured (where we are greeted by a toothless bleached blonde woman passing out candy canes) and then, effortlessly, with ungloved fingers, they twine the tree to the top of the car. we drive away, looking twice, a slow drive over ice towards grandmama's and hot chocolate.

the tree, undressed, stands in the corner. throughout the day we toss on a few more ornaments, the twist and sparkle of garland, the twinkle of lights, a glitter of mirrored ball. the boys are gentle with the tree, touching carefully so as not to be pricked and scatched, removing ornaments for close inspection, carefully, though haphazardly, replacing them and running off to the next thing that needs doing by little hands and feet.



my bones are cold. i spend the day consuming many cups of tea, coffee, cocoa. in between the whistles of the kettle, i'm not sure what goes on. the fruit of my hands hibernates, or so it would seem. the laundry is not caught up from our recent drive southerly. the upstairs of our house is a stunning series of piles, the homes for which sit empty, lonely and waiting. duty overwhelms creativity, i'm afraid, and, feeling lost, nothing is accomplished but that which is necessary. so sad to have no time for "reflection, immobility," for bouts of inspiration and symphonic readings. someday, perhaps. hopefully sooner rather than later.