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October 31, 2011

That old box, quiet and content in corners,

drags on behind me like it was tied

to my waist with a rope or a strange

umbilical cord hauling nutrients from

past to present, or present to past.


I move, it follows, the connection fibrous, transmits

light like splashes of 96 or the pigments

of hands that carve from pine

wood blocks the hope of victory

in the race. Old hand, old block, old victory (or defeat?),


you, too, are in the box. Caving buckling

cardboard it is—creased, ragged, and stuffed like

Santa’s sleigh with the wonders and echoes

of rushing woodwind whispers, dissolved now

Like dustfall on time’s lap.


Old father, old son,

old prodigal memories,

with fingertips I trace your words—


Have you come home to me in this box?


© Trent R. Leinenbach, Ashen Apples, 2011

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