The Box

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.