Outside, drought weakened
the brittle trees, fading them
to sickly grayish-brown.
Inside, one lone faux fir—imperial,
emerald green, impassive—loomed.
It stood defiant, smug, pampered,
looking out the window at its
anemic cousins.
Stripping off its gaudy decorations,
I began tugging at its trunk.
It collapsed with a jerk like an
enormous umbrella.
The outside trees swayed in the wind,
nodding their approval.
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