There is a black box on my basement floor.

It is full of pretty things.

As a girl, I kept it in my room

atop my bureau

and filled it with all the lovely tokens I collected

from a lovely life.

*

As I grew older

the box grew too,

and I carried it with me from place to place,

and within it I placed

my heart,

and my love and my children

and all their lovely things

until it swelled.

*

One day, when I was no longer young

and no longer lovely,

I carried it into my basement

and placed it in a corner

on the floor.

And my black box sprouted roots,

cracking the foundation

and reaching down into the earth

and through the earth

to a black and bitter place.

*

When the flood waters came and destroyed all else,

my black box remained anchored.

And, now that the waters have receded, I see

that all but it have been swept away.

*

I regard my box in the corner,

but I shall not open it,

for within is a hole that reaches into an eternity of lovely things

that no longer are

and the torment of memories

of lovely places

that no longer exist.