Gently Used

I used to give as gifts books I’d already read.
I’d scan my shelves till something popped,
both apropos and over with. I’d tie it up
with raffia, folded in new tissue. Or as happened
on the Easter vigil, I bestowed a shepherd
from a handmade crèche, which I gave piece by
piece for years until she held the very baby.
Did I stop because she left the church?
Or was it my own hurt that carried me
like a little boat (simple, but afloat) away
from her palatial, glittery shores? See,
there’s still a judgment, even in that metaphor.