Elegy for Tree
That which are meaningless, or those
intoxicating charms
Hand-wrought, Faberge, tribal, precious
and trashy
Taking
down the ornaments
Children back into xmas box. Into sweltering, killing cold attic
Where a bat flies the spine of its
apex, searching and searching
How the tree ached
this year
For a month, holding our smug
gems, drinking while dying
Its quiet loss unmourned, a blank
space below unfêted sky
Tossed by the road on
a heap
Gracious unknown conifer,
dripping your forlorn blades
May you burn after the ice,
satisfied your season is done
Burn
pointed into sky, aflame
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