That first Christmas, We cut four branches, Under the clouds, From the three pines On the other side Of the backyard hedge. If I went there today, I'd see the nubs. The pail full of sand Came from Daddy's Circle of cement making. We firmly planted The four branches And wrapped them With newspaper chains, Made with the extra edition From the morning's route. That night, the moon streamed Through the bay window, Spotlighting our tree. In later years, We bought trees from the Farmer's Market, Roping them with twinkling lights We plugged in. Daddy never bought a gift or a card For any special day; But he annually re-gifted Canada. This Christmas, the full moon Will stream again, And I will tell His great grand-daughter The story about the tenacity Of paper chains,