Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on unsplash
Ode to the Basket that Holds Odd Things
Your wide open mouth maintains
momentum, a rescue of all things
small. Rattan bent to the maker's
need, staves and spokes patterned
clean. On top of the bookcase
you carry last year's seeds, small
bits of hope, belief in tomorrow's
soil and rain. A card constructed
with a picture of me and a toddler
grandson, both of us laughing.
A smattering of cough drops,
post-its, furniture felt pads. All
remnants without a given place.
These you accept, invite, take in.
You survive moves, hide dust, last
decades, inhabit every room
of my house. Sometimes I empty
you, lay out tokens, deposited
as a gypsy might a fortune deck
and try to read the future
you have so closely guarded.
What do penny stamps say?
Or a small bit of coral? A push pin?
You ask no questions, but guard
all answers, rescript possibilities,
carry pocket-sized solutions
to so many mortal needs.
