Searching through my attic
I found an old dusty box,
the cardboard stained by years,
neglect chewing its frayed edges.
It contained things not forgotten,
the mind grocery list left behind,
a storehouse of need, yearning.
To awaken the past can be
a terrible realization of the present,
a specter finger pointing, condemning, accusing.
A dangerous reflection leads to guilt,
I wishes, whys, whys.
©2015, Donald Harbour