post mortem

the trees
in the forest
are whispering
among themselves,
speaking
in hushed tones
about
the others.
the dead.
the ones with
tinsel
still hung
on dry limbs,
lying now
on curbs
with wreathes
and empty boxes.
they shake
their high heads
in the january
wind,
sad for the ones
gone down, cut
off so young,
watered
and wired with
lights, for
a week or two,
some just
for one night.