Did it matter
if they were mulberry
or elm, gingko
or oak
did it matter
if they started to leaf
or rust, stood apart
or leaned together
like lovers
unkempt or pruned
to perfection,
did it matter
if we planted them
for shade
as buffer
in the front lawn
if we dressed them
in tinsel, fake snow,
in strings of lights
awaiting gods or angels
twined tiny tubes
around their limbs
fed them water
in drought year
if their thuds would have
wakened Hades, the musty smell
of their upturned roots
was the underground,
the sacrilegious air.
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