My father was meticulous
when hanging artificial ice cycles
on our Christmas trees.
One at a time he hung them.


His way of doing this
on a particular day
intruded on my morning walk
as I took  in the way the spanish moss
was hanging from the live oak trees.


My father  would approve.


His way of hanging things on trees
would coincide with nature’s way —
a thought I never entertained
‘til suddenly it came to me
while on an ordinary walk
amongst the beauty
I  sometimes take for granted.

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