The Basket


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
existence;

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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