In January

[In which I continue my poem-a-month challenge. This be the latest.]

Strange, how in December
we represent high hope
by slicing down
an evergreen.

Then,
in January,
with little regret
we litter the curbsides
with their gayly tinseled corpses.

Oh see how the brown needles
stipple the filthy snow.

Who now remembers
their season of conjured confidence,
happy-talk and the high gleam
of a store-bought star.

Carried away, all carried away
in trash-trucks to land-fills.

Who wonders, and who weeps,
when faith's so cast aside, so shuffled off
like some mere seasonal delusion?

What does it mean, what can it mean,
to be so briefly green and growing,
and then, so carelessly
forgotten?