The Old Cedar Tree Now, I know you never heard,
of a cowhand name of Ben,
I just made him up,
for this here poem.

But let us follow,
this fictional guy,
and maybe, just maybe,
you will think of him,
as not so fictional after all.

Or maybe, just maybe,
I met him,
on one fall eve,
just like the one,
I'm writin' about here.

I first saw him,
off yonder,
on the high Texas plains,
up in the Panhandle.

The wind not so brisk,
a blowin' the tumbleweeds,
here and there.

A bit of cool air to it,
winter approaching,
like buffalo and antelope,
bedding down for the night.

Or maybe an old owl,
coming in,
on whispering wings.

Or maybe a coyote howling,
slowly and mournfully at the moon,
well, you get the idea.

It coulda been in the 1800s,
but he still had his hair,
at least, I never looked under his hat,
and he never took it off.

I saw him wandering around, looking on the ground for something, opening a box or two, looking for something or other.

Shhh... lets listen in. Sounds like he is a talkin' a lament, about something, I'm not sure what... maybe it has to do, with that scraggly cedar tree, he keeps walking back to.

"Now, I coulda sworn, there was a box of ornaments here 'bouts, I wonder whut happened to them ?

I know they are here some place, I had them a while back, maybe it was long ago, and maybe far away.

I want to decorate this here tree, just to fix it up a bit, now, I cannot make it better, than Mother Nature fixed it up, but I kinda want, away out here, to have a bit of Home, a Holiday Tree, haven't seen one, in a very long while."

He searched, did old Ben, for rather a long while, then his little pocket watch, tolled with small chimes, then he gave a small sigh, as those 6 chimes, meant he had to head back, supper would be almost done.

So he walked back to the scraggly old cedar tree...

and saw something amazing.

The moon shining, as it set in the West, upon those branches, gave it a bit of frosted look, and fireflies, bouncing around, amongst the cedar needles, looked like tiny lights, a few rose petals, from somewhere distant, add some sunset color, to the tree.

Ben smiled, and tipped his hat, he figured he didn't need, to decorate it, after all.

So he walked over to his sorrel horse, and got aboard, him and his horse, did bow in salute, to that scraggly cedar tree, and the living decorations up on it.

He headed home, to eat some homemade bisquits, and what ever other vittles, might be available this night.
Art © Janet Boyd aka Bee Spit All Rights Reserved Poem © Jim M. Pierce, 2003. All Rights Reserved

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