It ends far faster than the build up.

Gone in a second.

Leaving a hole behind where glee existed.

I wish I could trace where that energy went.

Follow it down whatever drain it dripped down.

***

I love picking up a live Christmas tree for the winter.

Vitality that exists where it normally should not.

A scent that grounds and lifts the spirit all at once.

But it never lasts.

An experience I would bottle for later if I could.

Fated to disappear with the season.

***

Heart drops with a realization of the end.

The low feeling so much stronger than the high.

Effects running out at the same time every year.

A crash of spirit.

An end of the good.

A hole I do not know how to fill fast enough.

***

The Christmas tree never ends as it began.

The scent fades.

Needles lose color.

They fall to the floor to be trampled or become petrified to the branch.

Maybe they stay there because I wish they would.

But what meaning is left?

***

Other seasons will come.

Not more Christmas trees immediately but something to fill the hole.

A new object to look forward to.

Glittering and promising gifts.

Fleeting as the generalization of time,

But lasting long after the petrified needles.