Notes About The Poem
Written 28th September, 2026 submitted to Between Here and Eternity Poetry Contest sponsored by Sotto Poet
Placed 3rd
What the Wooden Chest Held
I lifted the lid of an old wooden chest
found in the basement of a house
being readied for sale,
furred with years of forgotten dust.
Cookbooks freckled with flour,
a travel diary telling of steam-train journeys;
an atlas whose borders
had altered beneath its cover.
Not treasure, exactly—
only the weight of lives
no one had thought to keep.
At the bottom, beneath the atlas,
I found a novel wrapped
in a lace doily.
The author was familiar.
Arthur Greensmith.
I thought I knew every title.
This one, I did not.
Where the Silence Flowers
I opened it for the date,
the edition, the print line—
to learn what I had missed.
On the flyleaf, an inscription:
Dear Annabelle—
I have tried to be faithful to what you told me.
Forgive what I had to imagine.
With love,
Uncle Arthur
Beside the first chapter,
where a girl walks alone
from the railway station,
someone had written
in pencil:
Not alone.
It had faded until the words
looked less like an answer
than something trying not to disappear.
I turned the pages slowly.
In the gutter of chapter four,
the pencil returned—
not to correct a name,
or alter what had happened,
but beside a sentence
about the girl’s mother
forgetting the colour of her eyes:
She always knew.
The handwriting broke there,
its final letter thinning
into the yellowing paper,
as though even certainty
had to be written lightly
to remain.
Behind the counter,
I opened my old bibliography
and searched for Greensmith,
running my finger down the years.
The early novels were there:
Funeral of Fireflies
Room at the Water’s Edge
Timeless Patience
But not this one.
No Where the Silence Flowers,
no first printing, no small press,
no note of a book withdrawn
before it could become
a title anyone remembered.
No record held the book.
No name claimed the correction.
Only the fading graphite
refused to let the story
belong to Arthur alone.
I closed the book over Annabelle’s words
and wondered:
when a story outlives the one who told it,
whose voice is still speaking?
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
