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