We all have a secret box hidden somewhere.
Under the bed, inside a tree hole,
or between two thoughts.
Some hide it so high, so they can’t reach it anymore.
Children like to stash it behind the rainbow,
and then forget about it.
Come see my secret box. I hid it well,
between two feelings: fear and joy.
It’s a very tight nook, but it’s safe.
Come have a look, I trust you now, come closer.
First, I take out sweet cherries.
“Cherries in winter?” you ask. And you eat them all.
“It’s only the beginning.” Dozens of white butterflies
fly from the lilac box, building bright bridges between
your heart and mine. “I can’t breathe!” you say.
You sneeze, blowing their magic powder away.
They fall on the floor, back to their caterpillar lives.
You laugh: “Who needs them, anyway?”
“Close your eyes! Glide your velvet hand inside”
“It’s snow,” you say, melting it. “Try again!”
“Peacock feathers?” Under your touch,
they crumble to ashes. “You only see frail feathers,
but I see peacocks’ flight. Try one more time!”
“White elephants? So funny!” You laugh, pulling their trunks.
“Stop, you’re hurting them!”
You grasp the wooden box and pull out trees.
Dozens, hundreds of trees. Our room is an orchard in autumn.
“Too crowded in here!”
You raze all the trees with a jerk of your arm.
“What else?” you ask, pulling out books and bubbles,
clouds and orchids. You reach the box’s bottom.
Sweet kisses curl around your fingers, warm hugs
wrap around your arms. “They’re useless!” You shake them off.
I watch them, silent, breaking
against the floor, like globes from a Christmas tree.
“That’s all?” you laugh. I run away from you,
away from your laugh. Far, far away, I peek inside my box.
In a corner—a blue bird, frightened, flapping her wings.
“Don’t be scared, little one. Nobody will take you away from me.
Fly through the mirror of the sky, but always come back.
Back to my secret box.”
Photo by Luis Galvez on Unsplash
