The Box
There's a wooden box in my bedroom with
a rose carved on the lid.
It holds a life-time of memories
- just things that might have hid.
Cards, pictures, pony-tails, and
teeth of kids and pets;
A comb, crafts, a cream-top spoon,
and baby bracelets;
Pins for ties, hats and hair, notes
printed by a tiny hand;
Antique silver cufflinks, feathers
from a felt-fedora's band;
A music tuner, passport, thermometer
of mother-of-pearl;
A shoe button-hook, a finger-wave
clip - Mom's, when she was a girl;
My Explorer pin, a nail file, elephants,
and a tiny opal;
Dried berries on a little twig
and my first dog's silent whistle;
Crafts, coins from 'Settlers Days',
a tiny Bible, too;
It was always in my mother's purse,
measuring one-and-a-half by two.
An old wrist-watch, still keeping
time, beats like a heart within,
Giving life to a hand-carved memory
box and the treasures stored within.
Joan Adams Burchell
(eopyright)
