Trees L Poem by Morgan Michaels

Hustled onto First overnight
the trees have arrived
from Quebec
van-borne via veldts,
of piney, dark eddies
flowing up hillsides flanking
castles of lore;
arriving either earlier
or later than expected,
or at precisely the moment called 'right'
'to which all expectation floods-
you decide. Bound tight, corsetted
quite in plastic snoods,
the branches which are their faces
covering their faces
as if they took lessons from a pine cone
and the child were indeed
father to the man;
as if they were shell-bound-
shell-bound
O Tannenbaum.

Through the zone they haplessly become I
tread an aromatic path
trailing the waft,
a seasonal beagle.
My boot heels strike stone
a hollow report I've heard
so many times before it's boring.
Is nothing new?
All about, the firs,
wintry presbyters,
insistent martyrs
at the feast of mystery and atmosphere:
atmosphere and...'
dear, dear, dear, dear, dear.

a tuft reaches out and brushes my neck
at the mandible's angle
here, beneath the ear
that, were it clad in underwear
would be an erogenous zone,
still...

bowwing their heads, all,
they sing in a choir
'Buy me, buy me, ! '
I suck in the oddly refreshing,
oxygen-rich air and answer,
shaking my head,
'too much, sorry, sorry, too much, '
yet can't but admit
'how lovely...
how lovely are thy branches'.

'What...