The Box

Written by: Jonathan Bellmann

My box is like no other. 
No tool, no food, no undesirable mood 
Is stored in my box. 
It’s not a drawer,
It harbors no smelly odors 
Nor rusty nails, no heartfelt letters 
Are left weeping like a thawing spring. 
It’s not a bank, so don’t even consider 
Harvesting its sumptuous treasure.
Its contents are waves of symphonic music
Left dormant like a seed, 
Then awakened to blossom 
With the light of spring. 
Like a whiff of clean air,
I devour it like bread, 
It’s like the dawning of a new day 
Each time I open its lid. 
I seldom disturb its deep slumber
Nor treat it with disrespect.
As I stare into its belly, 
I see silent faces,
Places I know, 
A fragrant rain – a melting snow. 
The chill of living is set aglow
When visited by memories 
That one never lets go.