Beneath my bed and twelve years' worth of dust,
There sat a box, a slice of faded green
With scuffed up sides and hinges caked with rust,
A buried treasure in the dark, unseen.
I found it as I packed up yesterday,
While sweeping socks and toys from where they hid.
I stopped and blew the film of dust away,
Then held the box and lifted up its lid.
Inside were marbles, leaves, and fishing hooks,
Some tangled yarn and oddly colored rocks;
And crumpled pages torn from comic books —
My youth summed up and hidden in a box.
I laid the box where all my things were piled;
Because, at times, I'm still that little child.