There’s an old Christmas tree—
dead, without its needles—
floating in the pond.

I remember the first
warm day in February
when my uncle dragged
the still-green tree
to the center of the ice.
He thought it would thaw
within a week,
and the tree would sink.
Minnows could find
safety from the big-mouth bass
and bluegills while they hid
in their buttress of little branches.

But it got cold again,
and the ice didn't melt
till late March. The green
needles persevered,
preserved by the frost,
the branches blanketed in snow.

The needles browned
and fell from the tips
when it got warm.
Now the tree’s
cocked  awkwardly on its side,
and the very top—
the part you might place a star
or a little cherub
as the finishing touch
to a Christmas tradition—
scrapes the dying and decomposing leaves
on the  muddy bottom.

The tree, the trunk,
that erroneous spot
drifting near the edges
of the blue-green water

—it floats aimlessly
as the minnows are swallowed whole.