Photo by Robyn Hood Black
I am participating in Laura Shovan’s February poem-a-day challenge on writing to found objects.
Box
Tongue in groove he tells me
is how they used to do it,
before nails
before cardboard and glue.This old box
traveled over miles
snow-covered hills,
through the mountains, perhaps.I slide the wood
across grooves
breathe pine, spicy pipe tobacco,
remember my grandfather’sstories of the railroad,
how steam would rise above
houses and whistle
his way home.–Margaret Simon
Beautiful, Margaret, love that you included that sliding panel. I have a little box like this, and they are made so well. And I love “whistle his way home”. Great ending.
What a history. I love the emotion invested in this poem about a box.