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.
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