Christmas in July

 I am writing about a Christmas tree

in July,

without the tapestry of letters or syllables,

but with the procured sadness

of what was left

between you

and me

last winter night.

I knew a man who sold sea-stones and shells

in the mountains, after superannuation.

It was a perfect chemistry

between the pining pines

and the saline sea—

a life of sedentary calm, long forgiven

for the sake of

a crippled poem in carpe diem mimicry.

14 August, 2025