Box

Twelve by ten
squared.  Numbered, measured,
one hundred
percent box.
Organizing a piece of
the air containing

mysteries
that spiral into
hidden and
unrealized
spaces.  What remains unseen?
What role could the box

play? Is your
desire the key to
what shivers
inside? Do
you ask for more? more than the
possible, more than

to open?
The Inner Sanctum.
Still.  Waiting.
Surrounded.
Chambered and then nautilused.
Complete or undone?

Inspired by Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above, I took an old poem that has already had several lives and reworked it again.  The only thing that remains constant in all the poem’s versions is the fact that it’s about a box.  The one in Sue’s photo seems both sad and mysterious.

Once again I’ve taken different pieces of the handmade paper I’ve accumulated and stitched it together.

Shadorma November is almost at an end (but not shadormas, for me, anyway).