When you were young,

You would fill me with,

Green grass,

And dandelions,

Make me a home,

For butterflies-

Who would wither,

And die.

When you were older,

I would be brimming,

With pastel buttons and yarn,

Toppling out my opening,

Chipping lid askew,

On the windowsill.

By adulthood,

I was filled with,

Cookies and candies,

That you’d pass off,

To your daughter,

When she was sick.

As you grew old,

You tried to fill me with,

Whiskey and gin,

To forget that you,

Were indeed,

Aging.

As you grew grey,

I was filled with dirt,

In hopes that,

By spring I’d be,

Blooming and green,

In hopes that,

You could catch a butterfly,

And prove that not all,

Things with a home,

Would wither,

And die-

You left my lid off.