I think of forests
massively filled
air swaddled
with pine and snow
needles crisp, sharp
to bind

But here, a squeezed corner
of penned trees
Douglas, Noble Fir
captive, owned until
the agreed passing of coins
this chain-link Christmas

Piled high
no more room at the inn
yet blooming prolifically
behind this fake snow
and out of reach from the flock
a bird of paradise blooms
Son of God

Nobility comes

at a murderous price