(poetry diary 123) I’m allergic to Xmas trees, but we still go to a place called Pinchbeck’s Tree Farm each year to get at least a wreath, as we like walking around and looking around at the trees so much. (My husband grew up down the road from Pinchbecks and used to love walking around it when he was a moody teen.) It’s a bit sad when the trees are cut down, though, sold “off their feet to go in cars” as described in this narrative piece by Frost:
(A Christmas Circular Letter)
The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
Read rest of poem
Later note: thanks to my dad for pointing out that the link for the poem actually went to the Pinchbeck’s website. Oy. Crazy time of year. I’m glad he pointed this out as it’s a splendid narrative poem–it’s hard not to read it through to its end….