The Basket


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
sculpted cameo,

seemingly preserved yet subject to
reflected light for her continued

so she is no longer free. She is
walled up behind the alabaster
tile—so cold.

This Child wants to fill me with her treasures:
serendipities, reminiscences,
joyful thoughts,

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 crumble—it must give way
for her release—

and that I was always intended
to contain her treasures.

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