She doesn’t have an oak
so the giant pine will have to do.

It’s not a ribbon either,
but a length of yellow tulle.

Her arms will hardly reach around,
though she relishes the imperfect gesture

as the heart clashes with the cliché.
When the clouds move in, she looks up

into the shooted shadows of branch,
her view of the world obstructed

by love and war. It’s the only yellow
around an old pine tree that she can see,

as far as she will let herself look
down her simple minded street,

un-ablazed with fire and bombs,
common, at peace, year after year.