Untrimming the Tree

We tend to get our Christmas tree a bit late and take it down rather tardily as well.  This poem is about the latter part of the process.  It turned out more melancholy, even morbid (I might get rid of the "body bag" line), than I had intended.

                                                                

                                        Untrimming the Tree

                        The bowl games have come and gone,

                        and we haven’t plugged in the lights for days,

                        but the Christmas tree still lingers in the corner

                        like a leftover guest from a formal party

                        all dressed up and discovered next morning

                        sleeping on the couch.  It is time to take it down,

                        so after dinner, I bring up the plastic bins

                        for the two person disassmbly line.

                        Sometimes what is done can be undone

                        and much more swiftly than the doing.

                        (Even gentle destruction is quicker than creation.)

                         Decorating the tree should be about ritual,

                        with carols on the classical station

                         and family gathered round,

                         each ornament savored and hung with care.

                         like a lady's earring for a fancy ball-

                         but undecorating is more chore than ceremony.

                         

                        Now it’s back to Bach on the radio,

                        and it's all about efficiency

                        with the usual division of labor:

                        I do the mindless work;

                        Robin  makes the decisions.

                        I quickly unhook the baubles from the branches;

                        she stores them in their appointed places-

                        just as when we’re going on a trip,

                        I lug the suitcases to the driveway

                        and she finds a way to make them fit

                        into the trunk.  It’s all about moving on.

                        After the ornaments, come the lights.

                        In a reverse, one man winter Maypole dance,

                        I slowly circle the tree, unwinding what we both

                        had wound.  Needles fall in flurries.  At first,

                        we had watered the tree religiously,

                        but in the last few days we had silently decided

                        to take it off  life support.  No heroic measures here.

                        Finally, the tree stands naked and a little sad,

                        no longer candy caned and smelling of fresh pine.

                        Robin spots one snowman, hanging hidden

                        among the inmost branches, clinging to them

                        like a Japanese soldier refusing to believe

                        the war is lost.  Robin lays him to rest,

                        homeless on top of the other ornaments

                        and the strands of lights, curled up

                        in their separate Safeway body bags.

                        Tomorrow we’ll take those boxes downstairs

                        and bury them in the catacombs of the crawl space,

                        drag the tree out the front door to the curb,

                        then vacuum up the needles until the bag is full

                        and put the furniture back where it belongs.

                        Next year we will roll away the stone and retrieve

                        the boxes to help coronate the tree’s

                         temporary successor -  if we decide

                        it’s worth it to put one up for just us two.

                       

                       Tonight we settle on the sofa to watch T.V.

                        ready for something besides Christmas reruns.