Random Acts of Poetry

Diorama

On this island the frost glitters,
pure, opalescent,
but also a bit cryptic,

hiding details, several fixations.
Wolves have no appetites here,
no woodsmen to drop,

no bones to lick clean.
There is only waiting,
eternal waiting for an old man

or mystical child
to stir, to eclipse
this powdered sugar roof,

this evergreen
of twists, ribboned
with careless adoration,

and the ruddy bells
that announce, in silence,
some castaway's delight.