The Box

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image

The Box

Opened or closed, the mood
descends

with the pull of tooth and
tongue

and discarded sound in wet
grass,

its odor mingling with
cordite

by summer pavement under the
canopy,

six plastic flowers faded by the
sun,

and photographs scattered over scraped
earth,

where we stand bound and
apart,

I reach toward
you

and find only
air.

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44 thoughts on “The Box”

  2. Oh man is this ever a well written poignant, sad, emotional touching poem! Wow, I will remember this poem for a very long time, thank you for writing such a powerful yet soft poem.

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  12. Now you know why I don’t attend funerals. I prefer the memory in my mind that I made with the person during their life. Don’t want the mortician’s artistry to influence my memories! Spent many years helping my grandfather take care of the local cemetery. This time of year it has to be immaculate. Too many visitors just wanting to make a show of their reverence for people who have passed away. They may not have bothered to visit while the person was alive, but they have to make a show for their friends.
    Jeanette Hall

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  17. Well done, Robert. Thank you.
    I was emotionally ready for more at the end; the “air” being both an empty (and slightly unnerving) conclusion and also becoming full of my own images of what we can only reach for. Whether by skill or accident, or a little of both, that was a shot to the heart.

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