Dreams in Tweed

It’s Christmas Eve and I stand,
just close enough to the fire
to feel its pulsing warmth
through my charcoal-grey slacks,

the mild hum of conversation
and Bing Crosby on the radio
resonates with the occasional
clicking of heels on hardwood,

I look at the tree—plastic-perfect,
ribbon spiraling in machine precision,
the red and gold ornaments in matrix—
price tag hiding. And as

I wince on my
eggnog and we trifle
at each other half-hearing,
I am reminded of a smell from long ago:

            sawdust in blue spruce sap on my fingers,
            I can taste its bitterness,
            and the numbing cold
            pressed on my jacket shoulder

            as I lay in the packed December snow,
            and pulled and pushed that yellow bow saw,
            how dad lay down too,
            when the teeth bit too hard

            and he reset the blade,
            and held away the branches,
            which always seemed to find my icy cheeks
            among mom’s endless wrapping of scarves and hats

            and when the steel burst through that bark,
            and the tree fell shaking into white-sheets rest,
            how I grabbed that trunk,
            and hauled it through winter’s falling grace.

Turner Wibbelsman is a rising senior and poetry honors thesis candidate at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. In addition to his poetry courses, he is a biology major hoping to one day attend medical school. Originally from Rumson, New Jersey, he enjoys fly fishing and rock climbing in his free time.

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One Response to Dreams in Tweed

  1. Frank Prem says:

    Very nice piece of writing, this.

    Enjoyed much.

    Cheers,

    Frank

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