The dust is shifted and lifted,

Rock it on end, unlock the old trend.

We kneel aghast, lift the lid fast;

What will we find in here confined?

Letters of plees, some guarantees

Footnotes of love, talks about gloves.

Yellowing paper, stained words a vapor

Laughs and tears, maybe some fears.

Every microscopic imaginable topic

Lies almost forgotten upon this cloth cotton.

How far we've come, hear guitars strum

As we read the last of souvenirs from the past.

• • • • •

• Date written: April 11, 2017 • Word Count: 79 • Line Count: 12 • Stanza Count: 1 •