Open When Ready



We
hold onto
beloved things
in boxes, oftentimes
holding very little value,
like an espided field stone;
one shaped by forgotten hands,
or dime-a-dozen dried sea horses
from childhood dips into teal waters, aside
the pocket change profiles of corrupt politicos
whose prying eyes don’t deserve the encouragement
or temptation of the words within our forgotten love letters.

These objects, subject to but a name,
the endearing keepsake label,
we keep tucked well away,
holding each at bay from
curious loved ones,
for one rainy day
of rediscovery,
of memory –
relevant to
you; to
me.