are strewn street-side, abandoned,
the ornaments having been
extracted and safely packaged;
the nobles who bore them with pride
through the long vigil of Christmas tide
are now flung aside.
Seven years of growing in a country aisle.
Four weeks of glowing festive Yuletide style.
My hour long morning walk passes so many
casualties unceremoniously cast casually
along the street, fragilely angled at curb and gutter,
unclothed and left utterly exposed in rows
awaiting the garbage truck to come dispose of them.
Near the apartment parking lot
a mass of trees is high-piled,
mound of green and brown, branch and trunk,
bleak bunch of castaways
that only yesterday were hailed as heroines of the home,
angel-topped and gilded in gold,
now shorn and forlorn in winter mud
next to a dumpster filled up
with crumpled wrapping paper, cardboard, tape—
the things that hold or hide what, growing late,
we forget we ever loved.