I’m an ornament, beautiful for a time. 

From the front side you’ll see sparkle dressed up with joy and reverie.

If you turn me around, you will find that I am broken, 

with jagged edges and vulnerable novelty.

Look deeper, you will see the inside golden hue

reflected on the outside as a glimmer 

of a life lived for you.

Yes, I have lived. I have worked hard to shine. 

I have caught your cursory glance my way. 

Because I, like others, exist as one in many in an array of delightful pleasure

for only a season or a day.

A season that passes all too quickly, as I fade, 

Into the background, or in a box somewhere. 

But today, I hang from the tree you placed me upon. 

Too decorative to complain. 

No one knows that I am broken on the backside, from carrying the weight. 

Of younger ornaments who hang their hope on me. 

And I oblige, because they shine with such equity. 

Equity of youth, my being once held them all. 

I am only an old ornament, broken

hung on a tree, 

where the gifts of progeny

have outshone thee.

© Erika K Rothwell