A blue spruce, out of place here,
with bittersweet
twined on its south side—the vine's
orange fruit, autumn's promise,
still hanging like one final
question against blue sky.
On the north side's branches:
snow. Light, a "dusting"
they call it. Dusting.
Two cardinals decorate
the uppermost branches;
scarlet hosts searching
for food.
In the distance, three bells:
one on the collar of each beagle
busy sifting scent in wild raspberry
sumac and Russian olive
and, above the bells, the sound
of voices: mother, son, laughing
in knee-deep snow.
Which of these gifts do I deserve?
None of them, I think,
then I reconsider and realize
I deserve them all. Unasked for
and echoing down through
the years, years full
of gratitude and heartbeats
as one hound's plaintive voice
rises above all of it,
then two more. Simple as
the wishes we all hold dear.

© by Larry Gavin.
Used with the author's permission.