Little magnetic box

A thousand pulses
lay within
its sealed secrets,
the what, the why,
the decisive when,
those how-on-earth-evers
of how it was ever again
to be so open.

Unique little box that it is.

Prise the lid and breathe in
a field of musk sweet,
rolling into a sky freshened blue
as the first sea you ever felt
windpress against your face,
the first crinkle of a trod pebble
or shell that had to be picked,
held between the fingers
and dusted of sand.
And you might just notice
when the lid’s firmly shut tight,
when the grains are inside,
that’s its only its surface
decoration.

Unique little box that it is.

If shaken, waterfalls hiss
and after, come caverning down
without a reverberating sound,
seep underground in deep thought
drip by drip by drip.

And yet, you throw the box
against the wall, to you
it’s ordinary,  no treasure at all.

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5 thoughts on “Little magnetic box

  1. nectarfizz says:

    This is very sad. I like the box, the box gets a place on your mantle.

  2. Matt says:

    Either sad in not seeing what is already there, or everyone’s treasures are different.

  3. Stephanie says:

    I have a small wooden box with ornate decorations carved into its lid. My mother brought it back for me from Costa Rica when I was a little girl. I doubt it cost much, but it retains a place of prominence in whatever domicile I happen to call home at a given time.

    You did a lovely job of expressing the value we attach to such things, be they of monetary worth or not.

  4. Matt says:

    Thanks, Stephanie, I was thinking of the box as being a metaphor, but it could be an actual box, like a keepsake too.

    Good to see you blogging again! 🙂

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