Once it was the skeleton at every feast
the ghost of every Christmas past
opening it’s metal maw for every guest and
relative sentenced to the spare room.
With a rigid rack and an
insufficiency of foam
it haunted dreams and
midnight meditations alike.
Until it came to this, cast off
with no charity in any heart.
No more guests, no more groans
and only the wind to strum it’s springs.
Now insects and small animals
shelter in it’s arms
and it greets dawn and sunset alike with equal
equanimity.
It marks the phases of the moon, the seasons
the circling sweep of the heavens
it’s first shooting stars
the dance of the northern lights.
Snow does not chill, rain does not drown it
for the sun and wind dry it.
birds have sung from it
and now a guest itself
the meadow brings it flowers.
Guy (In progress)
Guy (In progress)
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