By: Angela Meng
It had been several months now, several months—
Since anyone had draped it around their shoulders,
Since it had served a purpose.
All it had done as the clock hands spun—
Round, round—
And time ticked—
Tock, tock—
Was sit, undistinct,
Folded with care,
Amongst a plethora of sparkles,
Wrapping,
Bows,
Ornaments.
Its edges, frayed already from use,
Were now slowly unravelling,
Yarn spinning like dancers in the finest ballet.
Despite the aching hands of time, it still held on,
Tighter than the sun to its planets.
It waits for that wintry month with the laughter,
The floating waft of chocolate,
The squealing of children under a tree,
The blinding shine of lights.
Because it will be taken out again,
Year after year after long year.