sedimentary box

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sedimentary box
i open the box
beat up brown, ripped, corrugated cardboard
a riverbed of papers, mostly flat, others bent and
torn, each sheet an aqueous relic of a day i once lived
the top layer, light as a known south wind
a postcard, notes, rough sketch, thoughts i held dear
small wee things, rememberings that flutter and fly
refusing to be forgotten, my precious-ness
beneath, the weight of bright igneous fire
letters that once burned in my two hands
inked black and blue confessions, old flames
smouldering embers of voices i once knew and loved
then, sweet water, murky, swirling
a page crinkled with old tears, read over and over, and
a ticket stub from a far, far-away city where i
was once very lost and eventually finally found you
and at the bottom, grounded earth, muddy
a pressed leaf from a place i once thought could be home
a scratched poem folded so many times over
its creases, holding my ruddy fingerprints bare
the past settles like slippery silt, grainy
too dear to scatter or rip into minute shreds
outside, the world turns and moves, tick, ticking
the front door opens, my love calls my name
though, i am still here,
digging.

—carol weaver © 2025