Beneath this table sits a box
It’s scruffy, thin and battered.
A cardboard box of memories
Of days that really mattered.
Confetti from my wedding day
A drawing by my mother
The shoes that took my son to school.
A photo of my brother
A tattered book of rhyming verse
My dad’s infatuation.
A silken flower, grandma’s ball
A golden celebration.
A pipe my granddad carved with love
A boyhood skill he cherished.
His baccy tin is scratched and bare
Its precious contents perished.
A tarnished ring with stones of paste.
My sister’s finest treasure
A suitor's gift, now black with age
Of value without measure.
This box hold moments lost in time
We add things when we’re able
A memory from everyone
Who’s sat around this table.