shoe box,
the one labeled in my mother's clear printing,
to be hauled out every year
and displayed on whatever space
is unimportant enough to hold them.
They are the remnants of forgotten trips
to the dime store,
cheap little figures of cloth, plastic, and pipe cleaners,
the season they celebrated meaning nothing
to the tired women
who painted them
in some small Osaka factory.
They speak of a time,
centuries ago,
when that poignant morning meant so much to me,
and so much had yet to be learned.
After I die,
they will be thrown away.
But not before.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment