The Past

It sat in the cabinet under the stairs

called to wandering eyes and curious fingers

I moved it to the attic under an antique vase

but the roof leaked and soon hands and feet were climbing the ladder

I stashed it behind the living room sofa

but a friend with a duster soon came its way

Again, in vain, I hurl it into the fire

but it dances, unharmed in the desperate flames

At last I glance out the window and see the rare swirling white. 

I cast it outside and lock the door. 

I watch the clock, the window, 

the clock, the window

The flurry dies and I poke my head out the door. 

And there it lies, grinning, covered by only the slightest film. 

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

even the heaviest blizzard can't cover up the painful memories of the past...

and somehow, some way someone or something always takes them out of the attic, or from behind the couch...or protects them from weather...because they are just a part of us...we cannot disconnect.

[RedHairedWarrior]

Indeed. Thanks for your review.