the box

a foggy friday morning. foggy inside and outside my head. a few thoughts rolling through me today along the lines of "the box of my existence is being rebuilt". i'd better put up a bit of a fight to make sure that the box suits me.

here's a poem, about a box. the poem is by thomas jardine.

The Wooden Box

The wooden box stands on its end,
The open side against the wind.
High amber grass rolls in waves
And laps against the knotted boards,
Long unused except for spider caves,
And now one of the many hoards
The wind puts leaves and petals in.
I watch nearby while a low dark sky
Shoves heavy clouds with lighter wind.
The roaring trees know I am shy.
A spirit in the box soon stirs;
It tilts backward then leans forward,
The grass rage and all prefers
Not to have the box remain;
It lifts light, as if to fly,
And falls on back without a strain,
Up and open to the starting rain.
Each droplet makes a blushing stain.
The grass it pressed is yellow-brown,
Which springs up more as rain falls down.
Completely drenched I look around
And turn the open side to ground.



by Thomas Jardine