Like the dowdy bridesmaid afterwards,
Conscious of the comparisons that can be drawn,
And that surly boy beside her in his rented tux,
And the photographer condemned
Through no fault of his own to torture newlyweds;
Or like the newlyweds themselves in later years
Trying to attach names and feelings to the eyes
That flash at the flashbulbs’ glare-
We cannot blame you, Christmas tree.
Like them you’re not responsible
For your sorry condition. Tall as you are,
I know you might have grown still taller
If you’d been left alone. Birds might have built
Nests in your branches—just think of that!–
And the wind would have picked your ripened cones,
A few of which might well have carried on
In the great tradition of your chromosomes. Instead …
But there’s no need to tell you what you already know.
For what it’s worth, we think you’re beautiful,
And weddings are for parents, after all.
To Our Christmas Tree
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