My Christmas Tree is a Hippie

weighted down by its
light-up bead necklaces.
"Peace," "Joy," and
hearts ornament its arms.
Even the shape,
flared out like wide
bell-bottom jeans
with tinsel scarves
and shiny jewels.
Its star headband
that sparks the night
always points up
to the world of souls.
 
A shimmery silver
blanket over its feet
and boxes of stuff
cluttered all around.
Socks draped over
fireplaces and railings,
and it always smells of
incense and peppermint.
 
My Christmas tree
never stays for long—
a month, maybe more—
before it gets tired and
leaves, hitching a ride with
the old garbage man,
shedding worldly possessions
and needles for meditation
by the light of the moon.