In velvets and lace, gold
And pointy shoes, ribboned
Cuffs and ankle ties, the
Finely painted eyes that hold
A glimmer of knowing hidden
In a fine mist of white – almost
Motley, almost the Fool, a thing
Crafted from Venetian light.
Of Christmas ornaments long since
Taken down, this last survives.
Perhaps it alone bears the hints
Of the wisdom of the clown
In the warming Spring of our lives.