Poetry by Rebecca Henry Lowndes
Treenealogy
When in youth I solo dwelt,
my domicile to Christmas dealt
a budgeted but pagan-joyful
reign no low-fat pay could stifle.
Amid the shiny paper frills,
the greeting-card cascades and spills
of garland, planted I my three-
foot-soaring centerpiece, young Tree.
Bedecked with woven strands of light,
Tree winked and flashed with all his might,
resplendent, though diminutive,
’til he undressed and went to live,
come January, in his carton.
Only wearing Time should part an
ardent company like ours!
But when it fell within my powers,
faithlessness poor Tree retired,
as his successor I acquired.
Christened “Tremont, Son of Tree”,
at first his four-foot height to me
sufficient seemed; and when his limbs’ full
reach was draped by eager, nimble
fingers in gay Yuletide trim,
I swore I’d never part with him.
Years flew. Tremont repeatedly
donned his cloak of lights for me.
But all in time my days of cramped
apartment-living passed. Now tramped
my wifely feet the trimming hours
about a fullsize, grownup house.
I shopped the Christmas sales — and see!
I bought an heir to Son of Tree:
“Treemendous” — and he is, at seven
feet, with girth of near eleven;
wood and plastic, like the others
(though once he’s clad, no one bothers
to scratch for sap, or sniff for scent
of evergreen). Broad limbs bent
now, ’neath the weight of ten years’
whimsy, stout Treemendous nears
the end of service, long and true.
But how shall I replace him, who’s
been all a Christmas tree can be? —’til,
treeny-meeny-miney-treedle,
ten-foot Beautiful Treemer smiles
Hello across the tree-store aisles!
Arrival
Now is Christmas come:
with Michael’s lopsided smile
and the city damp
mist on his shoulders.
In the tight icicle air
dance-dodging the light
stinging slap of each
lacy bauble’s drifting fall;
beside the squatty
humbug station, ’til
the bold eye of the grimy
commuter pierces
the twilight, counting
paces, canting arms against
the cold, all the while
breathing frosty cones;
dotty with expectation,
sifting stodgy Time
we’ve kept our vigil.
Swaying homeward weary, lost
in contemplation
while the droning coach
and conversation’s traces
lull his years awake:
now for love, for home
and frail tradition’s sake he’ll
smile away the veil.
Whistle wail: down he
lopes, into our arms, mounting
our celebration
home. Hand ’round the ale,
wassail the dear bright Season
gaily, some and all!
Now is Christmas come,
and Michael’s smile holds us fast
with fierce elation.
Rebecca Henry Lowndes is a retired real estate admin, wife of Chris, mother of Nathaniel and Zachary. Her poetry collection, "Years and Other Leavings", was published in 2018. She is currently at work on editing fifty-five years of journaling into a single volume for future publication.