My needles fall to the ground, my sap leaks a sticky mess. I'm decorated once a year and left on the curb once the tide ends. A tree is part of my name, but my aroma gives shape to a car's dangling refresher.

Pausing your sight, flashing at night. Refer back to it’s vision, for nostalgia of life. It’s focus is true. Flipped, it’s focus is you. Frame snapped, time trapped. Aims forward, to look back.

I am a house without a door, Filled with songs you can’t ignore. Feathers flutter, wings will vary. What am I?

Hanging from soft lobes, Silent chimes swing with the breeze, Jewels whispering.

I’m either too thick or too thin. Rarely just right, bland and begging for toppings.