Odd the ornament bends the bough we heap and trim as we go through lights and ribbon as if were enough to hide the visions blur the snow the slush the wrapping piles that impede our walk, and the wiles that lead all to death, not by deed but by the heft of the genus' need for water which lies at the foot full fed by former ag-ed soot instead of leaving those behind who would have us bend, but to bind and dry and crack and shed our health, those that think us erstwhile kelp thoughtless as to the cut and drag that put us high like piney flags and left behind at twelve days end no root afoot, no knots that mend to the floor fallest greenest locks and dead we're tossed into the box.