Why I don’t write poetry…
or I’ve written two posts already, neither of which made a lick of sense despite the fact that I feel like there’s something I need to think about, to write about, that’s just drifting below my consciousness
A POEM
(though it doesn’t rhyme and has no form and probably doesn’t deserve the title)
Years ago on Playhouse Disney, Tony and Viv took cardboard boxes
And created a fabulous new world.
There were crafts and stories and playtime… and a little bit of romance
But maybe that was just in my head.
There was laughter and comfort, safety and learning…
It was a box full of love.
If I took a box and made my own world, what would it all hold?
A giant bathtub with swirly jets that I never had to clean…
Endless bubbles…
Books that somehow managed to entertain me, teach me, and enrich me without ever having to give me that uncomfortable moment near the end…
Mike…
My kids…
Friends…
That fabulous big bed we bought before Eliza was born…
Diet Coke…
The Sunday funnies…
If you had a wonder box of your own, what would it hold?
Do the homes we inhabit now, the lives we create, do they already hold
The wishes of our box world?
Is it up to us to add the crafts and stories and playtime?
Is the romance already there in our heads?
Or did it all just get replaced with The Wiggles?
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