Tree Lot

Longest
night of
the season &

we're
in up
to the hip-

bones
snow-drifts around
dark-green fir trees

whirling-dervishes
we revolve
in our arms

thread-bare
as with
northern mountains when

their
frozen stiff
branches drop down

trans-
fixed by
music coming in

on
the transistor
radio station &

flames
from tin-
can lanterns strung-up

overhead
the attendent
saws-off the tree

end
& says
keep the stem

submerged
& four
teaspoons sugar everyday

for
weeks as
if come spring

there
won't be
pine needles &

berries
scattered like
all over everything