In the attic

We pack things into
this keeper of castoffs,
treasures fallen from favor,
things no one wants
to remember or forget.

Letters and cards,
photos of the loved, departed,
clothes that no longer fit,
traces of money earned,
then lost or spent,
yellowed magazines, books
we’ll surely read again,
and those no one will—
manuscripts that didn’t sell.

Seasons in a box come out
to shine each winter
from the back of the house’s mind,
barely accessible memories
obscured most of the year by dust.

Copyright © 2007 Barbara W. Klaser

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In case you aren’t aware, my other blog is Mystery of a Shrinking Violet. Today you’re invited to attend the Dance of the palm fronds.