Soapbox

I always feel a little sad when I’ve stripped the once-proud Christmas tree bare
and it stands, naked again in my living room
shedding its life-blood all over my carpet,
shorn of it’s glitter and memories.
I feel that I’ve cheated it somehow, that I owe it more
for what it gave us.
But after all, it's a new year now, and the tree is of the past,
once adored and now discarded,
bravely raising now empty arms to the sky.

We chose it with such anticipation,
deemed it more beautiful than all the others,
lauded and admired it, photographed ourselves beside it 
proclaimed it queen for a day.
It bore, uncomplaining, the weight of the honors we bestowed upon it,
shone softly through the lengthening winter nights
sheltered our wishes and dreams,
and now, its fragrant breath exhausted,
I imagine it stands, heartbroken,
trying to recall the peace of the autumn hillside it once knew.
The ornaments and lights it wore are our treasures.
They are packed away with care 
to be brought out and exclaimed over next year
though they are only bits of glass and ceramic and tin.
Yet the tree, once a vibrant, living thing
that cleansed the air and offered shelter to small creatures
is hauled out with the cardboard boxes and empty Coke cans,
it's broken body exposed to the careless regard of passers-by.

But sometimes after Christmas there  is a nice pile of snow at the curb.
Then I  take the tree out and drive it upright into the snow
and let it stand proud once again.
I step back and admire it,  festoon it with a few pine cones and dead leaves
and let it sleep there till the truck comes
to dream of a winter mountain
under the rising moon.