Cedar

Cedar is

the Mother Tree

who bows and bends

and will not break

We drink of her Tea

and plant her rows

in graveyards so

they may be evergreen

Blocks of her heartwood 

we place between sheets

in the hope-chests against

moths that tend to feed

Her reverent scent

we inhale as incense

to our imaginary steed,

galloping upon cloven feet

In cold and heat of winter

we adorn her lobes and boughs

with little colored lanterns, 

crystals on wire, and bonfires

She isn't Christmas, by far

but in her presence we listen,

indeed, whistling with the wind

as we fall on bended-knee