The Tinsel Tree Poem by Cailey Martin

As the last segments of shimmering
life-fog light slip beneath
the oaken skyline, an anxious gust hurries
to fill the aftermath. With a

jolt, wearied limbs contemplate
motion—knobby, woody arms futile
in their resistance to change. Two hundred
thousand flags raise, proclaiming defeat,

and the sky god dismantles her peacoat–
that tenuous, sagging frame–
as on ethereal wings she lifts,
snagged by the faintest of updrafts. At last

the oak stirs, luminous, final chords
triumphant. But this is the siren
song; here is your second ending.
The air grows heavy and

wet with tears of the mourning
dove as the dearest autumn leaves strengthen
in resolve. They glint with the rosy
glare of ham sandwiches you packed

for me, swathed in crinkly foil.
I turn my back on your fading
form—I do not wait for the carousel to sputter
and slow—I do not watch the gentle wind

wind down, nor the leaves
as they disintegrate into ashes,
nor hear the distant sighs
of the softly dying day.