TIN STAR
There’s a tin star hanging
from a nail in my bedroom door.
It’s beautiful, with tiny leaves
pressed into its design.
One of my sisters brought it
home with her from Amsterdam.
At night I imagine her buying it,
slipping into some boutique
with her coat buttoned up
asking in broken Dutch for a souvenir,
something for her sister
something that might do
as a Christmas decoration all year long,
and the woman behind the counter saying
she knew just the thing
and knotting my little star on its red satin thread.
As it is, I know my little star’s real home.
Dangling over the frosty window of a bar,
nestled between an artificial pine bough
and the neon Amstel sign.
It is advent both here and there.
There’s a tin star hanging
from a nail in my bedroom door.
It’s beautiful, with tiny leaves
pressed into its design.
One of my sisters brought it
home with her from Amsterdam.
At night I imagine her buying it,
slipping into some boutique
with her coat buttoned up
asking in broken Dutch for a souvenir,
something for her sister
something that might do
as a Christmas decoration all year long,
and the woman behind the counter saying
she knew just the thing
and knotting my little star on its red satin thread.
As it is, I know my little star’s real home.
Dangling over the frosty window of a bar,
nestled between an artificial pine bough
and the neon Amstel sign.
It is advent both here and there.
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