I suck in a gulp of thick, pine-scented air, faced with the difficult question—which one. I tick through the usual criteria—fullness, tightly attached needles, correct height. Beyond that the trouble begins for me when I consider needle length, color, tightness of branches.
Needles crunch under the soles of my shoes as I slowly pass
down the row, hoping one tree chooses me. Those I don’t give a full inspection slyly
begin to stretch their postures more erect before I turn completely away. If I pause
to admire one, branches brush past the backs of my legs until I turn around and
give that tree a careful look.
Ahead in the center of the display, I hear voices in foreign
languages—hurried bits of anxious dialog that quiet as I grow near.
One small blue spruce tries his best to stretch taller but
cannot reach up to his neighbors, so I lean in and whisper, “If you talk to me,
I’ll take you home.”
I wait, determined, and the nearby treetops bend over the
tiny spruce until finally a gentle tinkling begins deep inside at its trunk,
radiating to the tips of the boughs at my side. I caress the singing branch,
then wave an arm to the shop owner.
2 comments:
That was so sweet! Love this idea of your tales & the pics.
Great little snippet.
Thanks, Terri. These are fun to write.
Post a Comment