Ornaments

I hid the mossy star

in the center of a blemished bush,

hoping my dusty companion

would not fuss at the design.

Despite my chicanery,

chewed glass and cracked

bulbs were discovered,

wheezing under snow prints.

How can I restrain

the comfort of my dull

hands, and push away

the thought of opening

homemade presents?

This season all

blase adornments

die forsaken and depleted,

drizzling down the throat

of a barn-broken refugee.