my box was antique blue
with a heart-shaped lock,
tiny key and gold filigree-
patterned lid, lifted fragilely
on two hinges to reveal tray
of velvety divided squares
my box held real jewelry,
leftovers from my mother
and grandmother which i
imagined in woke-dreams
they’d worn to royal teas
and exotic travels overseas
my box was old, well-used;
velvet rubbed bare in spots
till hinges broke irreparably
and i left childhood dreams
behind, discarded with box
but kept jeweled memories
______________
Patterned after Gillian Clarke’s poem, “My Box” and shared with Kim at dVerse poets OLN.
a poem in my pocket 