Boxes of years

Boxes of Years

Boxes filled with years,
harmless as vipers’ eggs
waiting to be opened.
Some so old and dried up
there’s no more than a
stale whiff of decay
to make me wrinkle my nose
and look away.

Some are just ripe for hatching
and the serpents emerge
bleary eyed, but ready to bite.

Boxes filled with years
waiting to be relived.
This year, a good one, but
filled with pain.
This one a year of misery
but with enough joy to fill
a box, to be hidden in the closet
and opened when it is most needed.

Boxes filled with
all that’s left of wasted years,
time thrown willingly to the
locusts, and leaving behind only these
husks to dig through, in the
hopes of finding
a few remaining gems, untarnished by the years.

Boxes, now empty,
ready to receive the years,
so many years ahead
so many memories still to be made
and put in boxes
to fill up with the years.

Prompted by the Weekend Wordsmith