Most of its dry needles lost with star

and spheres and angels, the tree we children dragged

the short way to the bonfire, tossed

crushed boxes, giftwrap on the pyre,

handfuls of snow so flames would crackle,

dart up the night to warm

our last caroling circle of the season-

a fragrant burning splendor.

In middle age we fed our mulcher

limb by limb our Christmas trees

drawn and quartered even to the trunk.

Wasting nothing, we husbanded our joys,

returned them layer by layer to earth.

And now grown smaller by Nativities,

our family watches the evening

caretaker wheel our smaller tree

away for curbside pick-up-a harvesting

of still green conifers

bound for lakes as habitats for fish,

for sudden darting, gleaming Chrismons

rippling dark branches in January waters.

Noreen Hayes