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