and then the room unpeopled
unpartied, without deflating-
un-this yeared and
was somehow new
even in the growing stillness
an old room,
suddenly empty,
in an old house,
a new year
nearby
bedroom sound
reaches out
spreading beneath doors
down stairs
like light but
for ears
hushed sound full
of paper
rubbing and turning
murmured voices
behind closed doors
atop the stairs
narrating dream seed
stories of
treehouses
shipwrecks
and magic
not yet too old
for zip up pajamas
christmas tree stand
in need of water
but Alaskan grown
young spruce
still pokey
full of needles and green
Finn called it
a training tree
and the neighbors laughed
Oscar yelled “OUCH”
for a few days
then fearless he charged
the bright, blinking tree
emerged
unscathed
with santa in a floatplane
and a stocking full of skis
this town
full of friends
this house
full of kids
some of them mine
all of them, now sleeping
my wife next door
drinking wine with the wives-
their husbands,
most of them
out the chain hunting caribou
‘kill something tomorrow for me, babe’
she tells him over the phone
adak and juneau
a whisper away
