In that pine box,

third shelf from the bottom

In the linen closet in the hall

And the lost keys

That no longer have locks.

The pen -- ink long dry -- memory fresh.

Faded - scentless - violets,

like the outdoors

It's the box that smells good.

Itself a memory, of the beach.

Brushed in China

Or Hong Kong, or Taiwan

By eyes that have never seen this ocean

or waves -- then surf

that takes it all away.

Open the box; let me hear the waves.

I am a part

Of the ocean spirit

larger than land, smaller than the sky.

As tracks in sand,

Stands perfect in your mind,

Until I am allowed to be free.

Returned,

Brought back home,

With the coming,

And the going,

Of the evening tide.

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