ars poetica, arbor natalis

north pole

Year after year
they somehow end up in the same places:
the heaviest at the bottom where the branches are strong;
the fragile dear ones up out of the sweep of the dog’s tail,
even when that dog is long gone;
those ones made of blown eggshells
painted red by an ancestor so many decades back
everyone living has forgotten who it was.
The motorcycle ornament of y…