by: Chris Green
Christmas trees lined like war refugees,
a fallen army made to stand in their greens.
Cut down at the foot, on their last leg,
they pull themselves up, arms raised.
We drop them like wood;
tied, they are driven through the streets,
dragged through the door, cornered
in a room, given a single blanket,
only water to drink, surrounded by joy.
Forced to wear a gaudy gold star,
to surrender their pride,
they do their best to look alive.
___________________________
A poem for the day after Christmas. Dark, full of disappointment. It's a day that always fills me with sadness. Yes, all of the hubbub of the holidays is winding down, but, after weeks and weeks of anticipation, it's over in the space of 24 hours.
I'm all for the celebration of 12 days of Christmas, December 25 to Epiphany. Can't really talk anybody into that, however.
Instead, I have Christmas lights on my tree. A Christmas movie on the television. And a Christmas poem.
Saint Marty isn't giving up the Ghost of Christmas Present yet.
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