The Box

The Box

I pick up yet another box –
It feels as if it’s filled with rocks.
I see the things I’ve packed away
For just that special rainy day.

A journal, pages dark and torn;
My baby doll – her dress is worn;
A pile of petals lie inside
A jew’lry box – they’ve long since died.

I sit here on the floor and think
Just when I’d worn this bracelet, pink.
A yearbook still looks new and fresh;
And tattered book of Gilgamesh.

A stack of notes I’d passed in class;
An ornament that’s made of glass;
A photograph, it stirs in me
A hearty laugh at what I see.

So one by one I take things out,
The mem’ries strong without a doubt.
Revealed are all those special things –
The lockets, bracelets, even rings.

But then, my heart, it skips a beat
And to my cheeks a red and heat –
I’d thought it lost forever then
Just where has this thing always been?

The envelope, it’s been pressed flat,
At bottom of the box it sat –
A tiny card on which you wrote
The words that sent my heart afloat.

I hold the paper tenderly –
A tear, it falls for love of thee.
I may have lost the love, it seems
But always will I have these dreams.

© Copyright 2008 ~♥~Krysha~♥~ (UN: runningwolf04 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
~♥~Krysha~♥~ has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.