you hang your trimmings
on the new evergreen, might be taller
might be shorter, might be fuller
or thinner, might not even be

as fresh and pine-scent as the one before,
but nevermore you hang them there
to be adorned, the trimmings, not the fixings
you knew something was missing because

it never was enough, even
with the star on top
each one had to be replaced
dried, the needles fell to the floor

to be swept up, tossed out
to make room for the newest edition
that you watered daily until that one too
dried up on you