Between Two Christmas Trees

"Here are your waters and your watering place.

Drink and be whole again beyond confusion."

—from Robert Frost's "Directive"

I had seen the other,

Desiccant, brown,

Early on, in the corner,

Dropping needles,

When I first met you.

I thought I could add

Some life to the place,

And I believe, in time,

I did in my own way.

Joy happened and laughter

And loving, but perhaps

I gushed and watered

Too much

For your dry tastes.

I thought you liked it,

But it needled you

In the end, and I sucked

Up too much energy, I suppose.

I cut down the next one,

The three of us with such

Potential picking it out

On a rise in a beautiful

Spot to the west of the ocean.

And the day felt OK,

Although lacking in holiday spirit
And withering for some time.

No water to keep things green.

I was told to keep my words

To myself (as if I ever could)

And to keep my hands to myself

(as if I ever could).

And the needles started to drop.

Larger, ancient forces astir,

Inevitable and dark,

A basic ingredient
Of life missing.

By then, I felt more like

A hired hand, henpecked,

18 years married

In just 11 months to the day,

Snapped at and corrected

With alarming regularity.

And perhaps that is my

Own misgiving,

When I should have been

Singing thanksgivings.

The tree will stand there, 

Silent sentry, sheltering
Those gifts that attempt
To paper over everything

That life lacks — and
Drop its needles, before 
Being dragged

To the curb —
With the rest.