Rusty Old Tool Box

A thought, a memory, flashed across my mind this morning. It was filled with an aromatic fragrance suitable for sharing. From my perspective, one of the most beautiful and awesome things about poetry is that there is a world of things to see, to hear, to feel. Nothing brings those experiences to life or reveals them like the words of a poem or like the strokes of an artist. Things are seen that would otherwise go unnoticed and unobserved, forever sealed in a cave of eternity, vanished into oblivion. For example, a few days ago, among other things, I placed a large rusty tool box at the edge of my lawn. Anyone who desired was free to pick from the pile for free. But one morning, I noticed a small page divider on my car's windshield with a note that read, "I am indebted to you for $20 for the tool box." It was signed by Crystal. If Crystal should come by before we move, I shall gladly inform her that the rusty old tool box is free. I did not sit the tool box out because I thought that it was worthless, but rather for someone just like Crystal. Although my usefulness for the old rusty tool box had run its course, I was elated that Crystal found treasure in the old rusty tool box. I tell you, it is I who hold in my hand a most treasured piece of paper upon which she left the note. I suspect that Crystal will clean it up and paint it for herself or someone she loves, giving new and fresh luster to an old rusty tool box. I am absolutely thrilled by the very thought of this. I live for moments like this. Yes. My wife and I will leave this treasured region of the country for good, after living here for more than 40 years. We will be leaving behind our treasured children and all of our precious grandchildren, relocating and spending our remaining years two time zones and more than 2000 miles away. In addition to our biological legacy, the old toolbox will also live on in other hands with a new and extended life. Without regard to any religious connotations, intangibly, that toolbox will always represent me in a place we once called home. Posted020922, PSCtest entry 61222, 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 1. Mark Toney