These trees were pure, untarnished
by hand of child or tinsel touch
or by the fierce, loving attention of Cat.
Neither did they bauble nor shimmer,
as other lowly trees of loose November.
Hark, even as they stood bravely in the deep December days,
lesser trees dropped gently in warm rooms
and knew the harshness of regret.
These trees, waiting for their Uplift,
already knew what it was to stay
between life and death,
to stare at the stars by night
and the winter sun by day.
They were toughened to this nether place
and knew they were ready for what came after.
Later, in the warm glow of tail-lights,
they took their final journey with pride,
knowing, til the end, they were tree and nothing else,
and would want only the touch of Nature
as they dusted their way to Earth.