Since I saw that the shrub of pyracantha
out in front of the Poetry Center guesthouse,
I thought I'd read this one that has pyracantha in it.
It also has mistletoe and I was very struck,
I was just in Abilene and noticed that the trees there
are completely covered with mistletoe.
I don't know if you've ever been through Abilene, Texas,
but if you go through, look at the mistletoe.
It's just amazing how much there is
and of course, the trees are about like this.
So if you want your mistletoe you just reach and get it.
I'll add that, so you will understand the opening lines
of this poem, in Virginia, the mistletoe
is always at the top of the highest tree on the hill.
So that's-- if you're from Texas you wouldn't understand what I
was talking about, I guess, but you don't even have mistletoe
in Arizona, do you?
Yeah.
You do?
They're grown in the field.
Oh, I thought only cactus.
But it's up, yeah.
It's a slightly different version in Arizona.
Well, this may be a different one than in Abilene,
because it's certainly prolific.
"Feast Day"
If you wanted to hang a sprig of mistletoe,
you had to shoot it down from the tree.
Summers with so much dense proliferation at the horizon
that I was caught by weed and bush grapes sprawling
on a low fence, hedgerows of wild rose or privet hedge,
a snarl of blackberry and poison Ivy along
the red gash the road made, and kudzu,
honeysuckle overtaking the banks, rotting
logs, a burnt out barn.
But in winter, from a distance, scanning the hills,
you could easily spot a clump of mistletoe in the high oak,
the top most branches like a nest against the gray sky,
and closer, the only green thing left in the black tree.
After Advent, having tied the wreath of running cedar
to the door, and whacked a blue tipped cedar out of the field,
having unearthed the white potatoes
and the yams, brought down pears and peaches from the shelf,
having sweated all the sugar from the sorghum
and plucked the doves,
having long since slaughtered the hog
and hung it by the heels in a nearby tree,
having boiled and scraped the bristles, slabbed the ribs,
packed the hams and salt rinsed and stuffed the gut, plunged
the knuckles into brine,
having eaten the testicles and ground
the snout with any remaining parts to make a cheese,
you went up country with your gun.
Oh mild Christ, the long plank table
is spread with wealth and everyone is gathered.
The father puts aside the quarrel with his one remaining
son.
The mother wipes an eye on her apron.
The daughters hush, the cousins cease their cruel competition.
On the table the brass centerpiece
is heaped with the brilliant red beads of pyracantha,
thorn of fire torn from a low shrub beside the house
and lifted above them, emblem of peace, emblem of affection,
the fleshy leaves of mistletoe bearing its few pearls,
its small inedible berry.
[APPLAUSE]