The Plastic Christmas Tree

There is a plastic Christmas tree down at the mall Every needle a perfect green. Untouched by winter wind or early frost, Summer’s heat or parching drought, It stands with ideal symmetry among the shoppers Lost in their own and personal worlds. Unnoticed, the sounds of recorded carols Mix with scents from the food court. This tree has never felt a squirrel’s foot, Or sheltered a blue jay, Or fed a foraging deer. This tree was never part of a forest. No community of Nature here. No drops of amber resin, no scent of pine, No growth, no decay, no death, Only a never-changing present. This tree wears decorations of mylar tinsel In the image of frozen icicles, Sprayed-on imitations of the winter’s depth. There is no indication here of season’s turning No December cold about to yield to life’s rebirth, No rising sun, no deep snow stillness, No connection to timeless cycles. This tree is hung with glass balls reflecting in the floodlights Fragile, like the present – so easy to break Mirroring the world around them, Glittering like Heaven’s stars But with no warmth of their own to share. The gift-wrapped boxes piled beneath this tree Hold no fresh new joys to discover. There will be no shouts of elation as these ribbons are removed. January turning to April will bring no new life, No promise of fragrant flowers Or the warmth of a blooming summer. In a short few weeks they’ll take down this plastic tree. It’s served its purpose here, no need to linger. They’ll come and put away all the decorations and the tinsel, The gift boxes placed back on their seasonal shelves, The green plastic branches stored in cardboard boxes, And this tree will disappear.