My Magic Box

March 20, 2012
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Inside my box I will put
The infinite, clear blue waters,
Lapping the banks of a pebbly cove,
And the salty spray of sea foam
Which splashes merrily in the warm summer wind

Walking home on a chilly November day
Forging a path through the maze of cobblestone streets,
Which wind their way around ancient, whispering walls
Finding a pleasant city melody in the bustle of passerby
And the ever present chatter and hum of traffic

I will put in my box
The memory walking across the sheltered green,
On a breezy day in early spring,
Bordered by narrow tree lined lanes
A single steeple rising up in the distance,
And lying on our backs in the dewy ground
And painting pictures in the pale blue sky
Dotted with wispy white clouds,
Which float in the gentle wind

My box will hold the soft rhythm of rain,
As it beats against sunbaked tarmac
And the earthen scent it brings
With coils of steam rising from its surface

I will place in my box the comforting and musky scent of a horse
Hay, oats,
Musty wood and settling dust,
Mingling with an undistinguishable and soothing sweetness

The memory of the day a young girl skipped through puddles
Which swelled against the curbs on a deserted street
A wild thunderstorm brewing in the horizon
Large, promising drops already speckling the pavement
With blisters burning as the rubber of her rain boots rubs against her bare feet
Relishing the feel of the cool water running downs her back,
And the silence and still of the world,
As above her the sky begins to open up
The promise of a storm in the growing thunder roaring in her ears

I will put in my box the sweet rich scent of wood smoke,
Carried on an evening breeze
The radiating warmth of a glowing sun,
And the feeling of sand between wriggling toes
Within my box,
I place the memory of the day they first walked together,
The sense of belonging,
The cool grass tickling their bare feet
As the sun set against a glowing sky of pearly pink,
Slipping down behind a frame of waving palms,
The warm late summer air rustling their delicate fronds
And as they laugh as one they are oblivious to the darkening sky

My box is made of memories and dreams,
Of the darkest nights,
And of the coldest winters

Of glowing bronze
And precious stones
Which shimmer,
Catching the light like fiery liquid crystal

It is everywhere with me,
Around me,
Yet it can never be found
With a lock to which only I hold the key





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