Sippy the coffee. Mmmmm.
I have a little tree of snow white goose feathers. Teeny, hard like a spruce feathers, delicately wrap around hard wire to make them branches. Below is a link that gives you some history.
I’m charmed by this tree; 3ft tall, decorated with new and vintage ornaments, lit from around by remote lit candles. Surrounded by well made pine branches and fake little pine cones. There is no smell of real pine here in the fake of it. No waft of balsam candles burning.
The goose was once flapping about and the rest of the fabrication…. well who knows.
I let it first bother me, in the so false is this contrived pretty
Quick to judge the where it all came from and how it was gathered
In the who made this for minimum lively hood and what died for it.
The harsh of me rose to greet the charm of it in a battle of right.
Dare I scan the rest of my treasures of who knows the where and what of it
Surrounded in an junker artist’s love of other peoples lives discarded
Gathered for my esthetic to be loved on and appreciated in whatever it was
That history moved along into my hands, heart, home, and hearth.
My appreciation rises above what brought it into it manifestation
From the content of it’s life before me that no longer matters
I had wandered to some dark story that I needed to pray myself out of it
I give my pretties their magic back to what brings me beauty.
I settle in the mystery of the hundred of tales that float through this air
Here with me in the place of home. I fill up in one big breath on all of them.
Smell their bitter, tangy sweet ambrosia and compliment my choices
for the family of treasures that found me.