by Selia Qynn 1976

the glittery fruit
from the now wraith-
like Christmas tree, I fall
into another of my inescapable
depressions. Yesterday it was so green,
fresh and full of life, standing there amidst
the grand trees on the lot - a bit scraggly here
and there, and uneven limbs sprawled awkwardly.
But somehow this pathetic little tree seemed to have
just the right qualities. It caught my fancy, and I immediately
thought to myself, "this little tree needs me." So, with noble intentions,
I bought the tree, rushed it home and introduced it to my four cats who all
sat with wide eyes in curious silence as I made a place for it at the f ront window.
It filled the house instantly with the fragrance of a pine forest. We proceeded to decorate
it with the utmost care, hanging the icicles one at a time in just the right spot, while my cats
raced around in excitement, joining my festive spirit. It reigned there in majesty, reaching the very
ceiling of my tiny apartment. Now, bare once again, it stands there unlike before, there is no smell of a
pine forest, no green, moist tree. Christmas is over like a bird flown south for the winter, leaving its summer
nest far behind. As I carry
it out the door, it cries a
sad trail of dried pine
needles. Me too...