What passing bells for trees who lie in gutters?
Only the monstrous rumble of the vans
will drown out their silent cries. No muttered
prayers, no roadside eulogies or thanks.
Doorstep-dumped, no longer spruce,
who now will pine for you and cry?
Unbaubled, untinseled, stripped of use,
off to the Great Wood Chipper in the sky;
How long has it been - two or three weeks? - 
since we laid out our gifts at your feet?
How quickly the present becomes the past
and time sweeps all needles from its path.