I
If the absent proprietor neglects the trussed up trees much longer
they will be no good for Christmas…
their arms pressed so tight to dark middle
crippled-like, unable to relax, unfold;
Sad branches unwilling to be adorned
and support shiny stars from tinseled fingers.
Soon needles
compressed, suffocating
will turn color
shed
thin in some places
thicken in others
no longer suitable for Christmas
not fitting for joy, pleasure, presentation
A smell will emit
once pleasing
now akin to casualty, rotting from inside to out
no longer cedar, pine, life
instead mold, must, morose
II
They called you Mr. Christmas
pride, splendor, wit
those were your gifts
given and got
some things made so much difference to you
new to your journey
you embraced those traditions and transitions
made them your own
III
Ornament collections now like key chains;
Full of questions, vagaries, whimsies, loss.
IV
A live tree or a fake?
One is not alive
having been cut down and bound like an animal
and the other is still a tree
neither is it alive
How steadfast, how loyal are the branches
How steadfast, how loyal are the branches
.
.
Now I feel guilty about having any sort of Christmas tree!- though I usually try to make sure a live one is alive and I can plant it out afterwards.
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