“The Cigar Box” by John Cassens

I keep a cigar box with corners frayed and lid just holding on.
Its contents being small things I've made and objects that I've found.
An odd-shaped rock, a marble, a feather, are three of many that lasted well.
But the little objects are no better than the stories they could tell.

I held these things so precious once when I was just a boy.
Now in my hand this timeless bunch of memories bring me joy.

I spread the treasures across the table to see what I once found.
I conclude that tomorrow if I'm able I'll walk and search the ground.

Somewhere in that old creek bed or on the hill where I ran,
a memory lies that once said, "find me if you can."

Something there since time began, hidden so none before could see.
But now somehow as if planned, it would be given just to me.

The creases corner my eyes today as I've far from weathered well.
The box's edges also appear that way but we both have stories still to tell.

I'm weathered so like this old box and both of us remember when,
we found the feather and the rock with stories locked within.

So regardless how worn we may seem, the box and I contain the past.
Beyond aged exteriors lies a dream, that memories do not die but last.