Little(ish) Tree

It's that time of year again: Time to read poetry to the Christmas tree.

This time always comes just a little bit after Christmas: when I know the tree will be leaving soon and I want to cherish, hug, hold tight these last few days of having. A tree in my house garrishly decked out yet forest simple. I would snuggle the tree--were it snugglier. Better merely to pat it's branches and breath deeply of douglas fir. And then to sit back and admire the colour and sparkle of lights and glass.

It's harder this year to find time to ponder the little tree and read him his poem. I could do it now: the children are napping. However, the husband is in the living room watching star trek. With the tree. He doesn't know that he's watching with the tree, per se. But I can tell the tree is at least a little bit interested. Anyway, tv spoils the tree poetry mood so it'll have to wait.

Instead I'll share the poem with you. You know. In case you want to read it to your tree too.




little tree

by: e.e. cummings (1894-1962)

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower
who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly
i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid
look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,
put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy
then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud
and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
"Noel Noel"

Done

I had been thinking about blogging for a while. Seemed like an amusing pursuit; a noble hobby. But...I couldn't decide where to start: I didn't have anything terribly exciting to share. I was waiting. Waiting for the perfect blogger inspiration. Waiting...

While I was waiting my husband went and started a blog. My.husband.has.a.blog. I don't think he's ever even read a blog. Blast. He sits behind me now. Chuckling that he has beat me to beginning this much pondered pursuit.

Now the words of someone else's wise old English teacher play over and over in my mind: "Done is better than perfect." Damn right.

It's not perfect. But the first post is done. Take that procrastination.

Now to redeem the aforementioned imperfections I will post charming pictures of the children.