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The Christmas Promise

dead tree, dread tree
stop staring at me
you know my intentions were good
i always meant to set you free

and i believed it, every word.
that childish vow whispered
as i carried you home,
your roots wrapped like a present,
your future bright as fairy lights.

i told you you would be returned to the soil
once the season dimmed,
that you would grow tall,
outlive the baubles and the songs.
a Christmas promise made
with all the sincerity of a child
and none of the follow through.

for a while you shone,
drinking in the warmth of the season,
the soft glow of evenings
when winter felt distant,
held at bay by tinsel
and the small magic of routine.

but the ground was stone
and my will was softer.
illness made excuses easy.
the days blurred,
the decorations came down,
and you waited in your pot
like a guest i kept meaning to help
but never quite reached.

the thaw came late
and found us both diminished.
your needles had already begun
their quiet fall,
a slow brown snowfall
gathering at your base
like a warning i refused to read.

i touched your branches then.
they crumbled like resolve,
fragile as the promises
we make when the lights are bright
and the world feels briefly fixable.

still, i dug your shallow bed,
more gesture than salvation,
and set you in the earth
as if that could undo
the weeks of waiting.

you did not take.
of course you did not.
roots need more than hope
and a late apology.

i tried to resist the thought
that there is always next year
as i pulled your body from the ground.
the words felt thin,
a comfort for the child in me,
a lullaby for the guilty.

and somewhere far from this garden,
whole forests lean into the wind
with the same brittle patience,
waiting for promises made
by people who meant well
but moved too slowly.

the world is full of trees
that never got their spring,
full of thaws that came too late,
full of hands that meant to help
once the holidays were over.

and the earth, older than our seasons,
older than our bright intentions,
whispers the same truth
through every fallen needle, leaf and trunk.
there will come a year
when next does not arrive,
when the waiting ends,
and the world grows quiet
in a way we cannot mend.