The Box

In the autumn as leaves turn red
The house is quiet and school has started.
My mother takes me by the hand
And fetches the little red wagon.
In it she places a tin lunch box
And some shears for cutting away the wood.

Across the pasture we walk to the wood
Gloriously bedecked in frocks of gold. The red
Barn winks at us, and I wonder what is in that box.
Thwack! Thwack! My mom has started
Hacking away the foliage. Behind me I pull the wagon,
Receiving the branches she puts into my hand.

A little spider scampers up my hand
And with a shriek I send the wood
Flying while I drop the handle on the wagon.
Startled, my mother turns her red
Cheeks toward me. A laugh erupts that Started
From the depths of her soul, and once again I eye the box

A mystery is contained in that box
Enticing my chubby hand
To pry it open, but just as I get started
My mother guides us further into the Wood.
I swat at branches snatching my favorite red
Sweater and tread upon the roots who dare belay my wagon.

Twigs and brush spill over the edges of my wagon
Until it rolls to a labored halt. Mother takes the box
Into her hands and sits beside a hollow tree; red
Leaves swirling shadows over her hand
As she unclasps the rusted metal. The wood
Holds its breath and even the wind has started

To calm in anticipation. In wonderment I start
to gaze upon the treasure convoyed by the wagon
Through the wild wood
In its homely rusted box.
Mother places in my hand
A beloved book and chocolate wrapped in shiny red.

I have barely started to unwrap my red
Treasure as I lean upon the wagon. Mother clasps my hand
and reads about enchantments in the wood, hidden in a box.

-J.H. Schmidt

Written in a form called Sestina for a class, based on my love of fall and this memory.

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Filed under Farm Stories, Memory, Poetry, Writing

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