Snow

Mud cakes my sneakers as we
explore the 70 acres of country land
with vast fields of pines, spruces and firs,
but the bulldozer across the street testifies
to its inevitable descent into suburbia.
As I cut down our Christmas tree
I remember a picture in my house:

I am five of six, winter hat too big,
Puffy coat and mock fur lined boots.

We trampled through the snow to find
the perfect tree, tied it on the car
as my uncles threw snowballs.

Piling into the car, my uncle pushes my
grandmother into a snow bank
and everyone laughs, but I am concerned.

In the picture I yank my grandmothers hand
determined to help her up, but I’m too small;
even the snow bank is taller than me.