It’s Christmas and the tree is dead.
You can work to hang all the ornaments,
Wreaths and mistletoe in the world,
And not find a living soul to kiss.
Blistering wind sweeps into every crack.
In every window, board and door,
Angry words exchange in a breeze,
As if it was a simple seasonal chore.
We didn’t hang stockings over the fireplace,
This year. We didn’t see the reason.
We placed coal in our heart’s stove,
Because it was last best use of the resource.
Sometimes, at Christmas time,
A smash and burn burial is best.