Suhayl Schroeder Poet Free verse

My Box

This box sits on the windowsill

And few stop to open it

And look inside at the trinkets

That I placed so very neatly

 

My box sits waiting

But those who pass see no value inside of it

And the ones who open it take the brightest baublez

And leave dried leaves in their place

 

Our box was closed

Only opening for the very best memories

But then I see I am the one opening it

Not that traveler that promised me more

 

What box is this?

That hurts me

And has scratches

And hurts itself

 

But I'm still leaving it out hoping a wind of change blows

And I hope you

Kind and warm passerby

Will help me open it once more

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