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  • W Roger Carlisle

Lost Christmas Trees

by W Roger Carlisle

In frozen January, my wife and I

would drag our discarded Christmas tree

out of the house and onto the curb. The tree

always looked scraggly and bare with its few

strands of tinsel and shiny foil icicles.

The limbs and fine needles were largely gone;

it felt like a homeless person had camped in our yard.

One year we found joy and relief when we looked out

our kitchen window. Our four year old son had

collected all of the discarded trees in the neighborhood

and planted them upright in our back yard. We enjoyed two

weeks of my child’s innocence and hope in his dying forest.

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