The Cigar Box
I have a cigar box with corners
frayed and lid barely holding on.
Its contents being small things I've
made and objects that I've found.
An odd-shaped rock, a marble, a feather,
are three of many that lasted well.
But the little objects are no better
than the stories they could tell.
I held these things so precious once
when I was a wide-eyed boy.
Now in my hand this timeless bunch
of memories bring me joy.
I lay the treasures cross the table
to see what I once had found.
I conclude that tomorrow if I'm able
I'll walk and search the ground.
Somewhere in that old creek bed
or on the side of the grassy hill,
memories are no longer dead
and find them I surely will.
Something lying there since time began,
hidden so none before could see.
But now as if somehow planned,
it would be given just to me.
The creases corner my eyes today
as I've far from weathered well.
The box's edges also appear that way
but we both have stories still to tell.
I am weathered so like this old box
and both of us remember when
we found the feather and the rock
with their stories locked within.
Regardless how worn we may seem,
the box and I contain the past.
Beyond aged exteriors lies the dream,
that memories do not die but last.
Copyright © John Cassens | Year Posted 2007
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