Among the litany of lost relics,
a Swiss music box tree stand
that played O du fröhliche, silver
and sent home after the war
and a holy rustic doll house to teach
us the beauty of scrappy origins,
in splinters and old straw.
Our aunt would point out
the North Star, that hung above it
as well as the one out the window,
which I can still find. She was a realist
who understood the ecumenical
mojo of a good story
and I am still the shepherd
who watches over her flocks
by night, and who, even now,
neglects the rosy porcelain
adored child in favor of
the gentle lowing beasts.
