THE FIR TREE

(In memory Bertolt Brecht
Jan 10, 1896-1956)

In the late Fall
we stood there decked out
among your tall green branches
celebrating by those ignored
or who can ill afford
to buy you after all
for their Christmas hallway
always guessing that you
came from the Black Forest
who can be sure
at the best of our intentions
when our time seems so barren
even with your conventions
along the spire
where hungry birds
need to rest
rising by a rose of Sharon
asking Bertolt to be our guest,
with poetic words
on the stage of Mother Courage
in an honorable mention,
the fir has bright bells on
even an icy decorated star
over the light's desired top
why do we not stop to recognize
who you are
with the world so well instructed
yet today one will hardly read
just march
off to war for sin and greed
losing the finest citizens indeed,
we know that in our hearts
Christ Himself bleeds
seeing through strife's injustice
when we forget our part
to visit the sick and cold who flee
among the lost troubled refugees
having sung "For Great You Art"
as your body hung on for three hours
coiled at an entangled
old wooden Jesus tree
double- crossed at Calvary
bowing to your Father
on your knee
yet at the judgment bench
we too must eat, drink, feed
dream,love or breed
even as we are politically incorrect
like Bertolt Brecht,
we acknowledge your birth
on each tenth of January
having a repast of your memory
in Germany and the States
as a trumpet and fife
reaches for taps
to stir the waiting crowd
back to life
for those who are with the poor
who survived the collapse of war
stirring a pushing crowd back to life
who come to visit the bush now
and sit by the crowd
to celebrate the holidays here
only the fir tree remains
once so astonished and proud
even after wintry snow and rains
the fir tree has not vanished
nor have your unbowed remains.