Welcome to Gaia! :: Arenas

In my palm
A small Piece
The littlest Part,
A tiny Snippet,
of the Icy tree,
Rested in my Palm.

How beautiful.
How serene.
Was this Twig.

My footfall,
Thrice steps I took.
To get a
Better
Look.

Branches,
Coated in a
Blanket of Ice.
Tucked deeply,
Snugly,
Despite the Cold.

I fear not
For the Tree.
The cold is
Not it's Friend,
Persay.
But,
Underneath that
Sheet,
The Tree, Thrives
Warm inside.

The Door is
Stubborn to Close,
This time of Year.

Still, I do not
Fear of my
Birch Trees.
They're similar,
To myself.
On the outside,
Cool to the Touch.
Yet,
On the inside,
Warm and Soft.
And smooth.
And I Hold
Faith,
By the Fingertips.

The Snow
On my rooftop,
Is dripping once
More.
It's melting.
Although,
With the Weather Here,
Snow will Return,
Soon enough.

A smirk graces
My lips.
I remember the
One time it Did not.

What a shame,
It had been.
I'd grown fond,
Quite so,
Of having a
Coating of Snow,
Over everything.
Even myself, and
The Dog.

Yet, that
Year. It had been
Dreary.
It had not been,
As I hoped it Would,
A White Christmas.

A day
Has passed.
My dog, She
Hates it when
The wind howls,
Since she does not.
My prediction had been
Right, and
Snow,
Thin and wispy
As lace, fluttered
To the Earth.

This reminded me,
Of my Mother.
And when we were young.
How she hated
The snow!
She always was,
A Southern Gal.
Who preferred,
Warm, Humid Heat.
Over the Cold
Climate, of where
We Moved to.

And, as I was
Young. Her words
I remember.
The Description
She had for
The White Beauty.
Although her words,
I will not Repeat.
Let's just say call it,
The Profanity Snow.

And At maybe,
Three or Four,
I knew no Better.
And thought that
Of its name!
Once, she
Heard me say it.
Mother giggled,
Before Setting me Right.

Pardon,
My muttering.
It's a Habit,
If you will.
Of stringing up
The Lights.
That will Twinkle So.

This,
Reminds me,
Of my Papa.
For years,
We did this Ritual
Together.
Of Setting the Lights.

A Task it Was,
As The Snow
Flurried,
to String them.
On occasion,
A bulb would die.
And one
by One,
They all went out.

Drat it!
My Papa,
Would curse.
As we Had to
Pull it Off,
And Start Anew.

Of course,
What I remember Best,
Was the Music,
We always played.
Since Mother
Took no Part,
In this ritual,
We could choose
The Christmas songs.

We listened to
The Ramones,
Most years.
Then added more,
And more.
Bon Jovi,
Kiss, and Poison too.
Not quite
Christmas music.
But it will do,
As I string the
Garland up.

And Step back,
Admire work
Done well.
A properly,
Fakely Frosted,
Christmas tree.

At long Last,
I take the Photo.
Of a Snowy
Tree,
A shimmering Landscape,
And one,
Ice-coated Tree.

The perfect Shot.
And Wholly,
Undescribable.
Just like
Christmas.