Not for the Godless

Every year it arrives
This stained hardwood hamper
This time of year

Is not for the Godless
Each year a member of my dynasty dies
My children do not recreate themselves

And I am wistful, waiting,
For babies, blundering, malleable
Quivering by snatching sterling

And I will feel virtuous once again
As babies babble and I whisper magical,
Wonderful words. I am someone

To recall in slumber
In conversation. Her home was a planet
Of cheerfulness, of fairytales

They will say
Of wholesome banquets
Of miniature battlements

And stories that spring
From my boundless imagination
I illuminate their path

But my colossal children
Stand tall as poppies and independent
Heedless, needless of me