inside

we find

stuff

we know

our box

full of stuff

the wide world is waiting

waiting for us to share

it goes

unseen

by us

trapped in a box of despair

the wind pushes a lake

like a whisper on water

the sun shines through

blades of grass

that cut

a yellow-green hew

spreading their black shadows

behind them

pushing up

through cardboard

like a daisy

that delights

in day

a fountain of white petals

under which,

dust and dirt decay

on broken toys.

We grow up

from our nursery

joining the wide world

with rules and no answers

many of us want the truth

to unlock mysteries

with keys

inside

our box

but they always go to broken toys

or padlocks

the keys

are out there

though

once you’ve entered a new space

and grown larger

it’s impossible to fit

back in

where the story-book world

makes sense

in the box.

Theories and language

explain what it is

confusing what we know

memories we see

inside

our box

a story

is a made-up word

a switch

in our head

that won’t turn off

we are turned on

by the outside world

unlike a box

bathed, in artificial light

do we need to know

why?

or is an unsolvable mystery

better than

a predictable plot?

death

underground

waiting for us

a story

we can’t help telling

answers

in language

never true

but good to listen to

I love to tell them

I love to listen

to a world

that lives

beyond my box

escaping death

for a moment

in this real

expansive

life.