Like a beautifully-woven basket
I hang empty, on a single hook,
in my dream.
I am not machine-made, not slick, nor
shiny, but woven carefully and strongly
of simple reeds.
The hook is insecure, foolishly
having been hammered into a wall
of porcelain tile.
Above, hangs an oval mirror. The
face of my Inner Child peers out, a
seemingly preserved yet subject to
reflected light for her continued
so she is no longer free. She is
walled up behind the alabaster
This Child wants to fill me with her treasures:
from her innocent years, but fears their
added burden may destroy the wall.
She does not know
that the wall is stable: merely the tile
will crumbleâ€”it must give way
for her releaseâ€”
and that I was always intended
to contain her treasures.