For my sister on her birthday

I sense that for some time now you’ve been trying to change it up
With birthdays not requiring we contribute to buildup
Of objects that may soon become more clutter in our homes
Which already are sinking under weight of dated tomes.
Yet somehow your endeavoring has yet to bring results,
As the rest of us have clung to childhood habits as adults.
Convince ourselves we try that we could stop at any time;
We reason our addiction does not constitute a crime.
So just to prove I can eschew consumerism’s curse
I send you nothing more than this self-penned obnoxious verse,
That varies not a tittle in its rhythm or its meter,
And runs the risk of becoming a sanity depleter.
Long have you posed the question of what constitutes a gift,
Opting for the homemade sort that gives the heart a lift,
Those many times your handiwork replaced monetarism
Seeking to revive our lost ancestral altruism.
Perhaps it was this set of values which rose up and drove
You to take on the family nest way up in Folly Cove,
To line it with fresh feathers, seaweed, willow twigs, and grasses,
To ensure the family line shall hear Atlantic splashes
Through at least one generation, maybe two or three.
Thank all who came before you and in turn they will thank thee.