(About a 2 minute read)
I’ve come to believe most of my “thinking”
Is nothing much more than exploring
the insides of my boxes.
The boxes my mother, my teachers, my peers,
My friends, my culture, and that old guy
Who lived up on the hill in the Victorian,
Gave me mostly when I was growing up,
Something fun to play around inside of.
Something fun for me to play around inside of.
Now and then, I’ve made an important discovery.
“This box has slicker walls! An insight!”
“This one is larger than the rest! A deeper insight!”
“All boxes have walls! An inviolate Law of Nature!”
But sometimes, comes a man or woman
With some mysterious steel thing held in their fingers
Who pokes a few tiny holes in my boxes.
I don’t always like those people.
Too much light inside my boxes
Can annoy my well-adjusted eyes,
And make me feel like I’m lost
And going blind.
Yet, the tiny holes are the way I know,
“The walls of all my boxes are brown”.
I have not liked everyone of those who came to poke,
But I liked Sharon, the high school librarian.
I even felt youthful love for Sharon,
Which I’m pretty sure explains how
She poked a hole for me the size of a dime.
It took a while to brave the blinding light.
But then I looked. More for her at first than for me.
I saw a field of satin white roses with green stems
That had dewdrops clinging to their thorns,
And far above the frightening field, a Great Light.