Reflected on the black

of a plate glass wall,

the lobby's tinseled tree

is x-rayed by the mall,


its branches filtered out

by their natural green,

leaving only brilliant white

shouting on the screen,


a kind of constellation

where the neon traces

of the pulsing lights

eliminate the skeleton


that supports their stellar

flight, the basted ends

of branches all that's left,

the limbs erased


in favor of the coat,

a sparkling glissando

where fingers come to rest

on just one note,


and at so much cost,

where the ebb and flow

of fashion harms 

the greater human good,


the underlying arms

that make a wood

shown up by the gaudy snow

and superficial frost


where, before the light was lost,

Yggdrasil itself had stood.