the church trees

the trees
in the snow, cut at
the bottom,
the trunks thinned
and flat
are ready for taking.
lined in
rows,
large and small together.
this one is nice
you say,
holding it out in the soft
light of
the church.
yes. this one you say
and pay the man
in his red plaid hat,
his gold
shining with his smile.
he turns his back
to a take nip,
then
onto the roof
it goes, strung tight
for the three miles
from lot to door.
they smell like Christmas.
like
the ones of your youth.
you can go back again,
just not all
the way.