Hidden In A Box of Simple Joy
My family packed my history away
in boxes hidden deep in dark storage
away from me when I needed courage
where life was stored for more than just a day.
Now hardships fill my inner space with fear,
no art and craft supplies to bring a smile
to ponder collections for quite awhile
to look upon my trinkets with a tear.
A mountain seems to block my way to these,
a thread to connect me to a lost toy,
small items, mementos of time well spent.
Though one should live for now the past will please,
my needles thread is ready to employ
to pause the colors of my discontent.
What worlds are hidden in this box of joy?
A nutcracker missing his lower jaw,
a lonely plush bear holding out his paw,
a rustic saddle from an old cowboy.
Another Faberge that I collect,
an ornamental piece like my poems,
a simple tonic used to cure doldrums
a moment in our lives where we reflect.
So many years delicately painted
on hand stretched canvases a few feet tall
or Dreamcatchers display of Cat’s Cradle.
These worlds that I become reacquainted
with, healing powers strong enough for all,
these boxes contents strewn upon table.
This sewing kit I’ve had since I was young
has patched so many holes it would seem old
and kept us clothed when outside seemed so cold,
my son’s patched shirts still starched, recently hung.
The many multicolored buttons saved
in jar that I would pour out upon bed
to place in categories in my head
then safe in bottle where they are enslaved.
“But why would you help me unbox my things?”
Yet know this way, an act of deep felt love,
to except curiosity and help.
To find “forty red, white, and blue shoestrings.”
These items I would never get rid of
like strong ocean waves hold onto kelp.
Among the crafts I hid ancient spearheads
from native tribes who roamed the Great Southwest,
of certain tribes that stuck out from the rest
along with owls in macrame and beads.
A reminder of my interest in past
for some reason my mind always forgets
when Dad and I would sit and string our nets,
a strategy to make these memories last.
When boxes finally can see the light
and contents brought back to the front of life
the joy will be in sharing with a friend.
Some things were made to not keep out of sight,
the colors in a well used palette knife,
a work of art that made my heart transcend.
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