Box of Broken Treasures
Someone’s collection, a wooden bod of lost things.
A single cuff link. A washer. A dozen earrings,
no two matching. An odd pearl.
A filigree ring without its stone.
A rose brooch, without the pin on the back,
no way to wear it, one porcelain petal snapped off.
A pitten stainless steel watch band.
No watch. A tie tack.
The perfect box of remembered treawsures,
saved for two generations,
their beauty worth the saving.
About this poem
I have been, as some of you have noted, reflective the last week or two. And some of that reflection has been on things lost. And yet, somehow, never lost.
The photograph was taken in a local antique shop.