The Tin

in the alcove adjacent to the creeping roots of the lawn's backwoods
the dirt appears unsettled, something's buried down below.
as we exchange the childish look once more we both prepare to dig;
you hand me the shovel with a smile upon your wrinkled face.

we push through twenty years of mangled growth,
a web ensnaring all we hope to uncover.
we relinquish reason for our faded youth
and the winter quickly gives to summer.

before the thickly fallen snow can obscure our nostalgic vision
a clink echoes past the frozen flowers and through the twisted barren wood,
and as the metallic vibration spreads they bloom again and devour the harsh and empty world;
I look into your eyes and you in mine as if again we were only six years old.

we unearth the box and set it gently on the ground,
thinking to ourselves that perhaps what was lost
might once again be found.
our hands touch as we reach to open it once and for all.

if only Pandora had a box like this
she might have saved the world from all sin,
but there's only hope I guess for you and me
and so you laugh as you reveal that you still have the key.

with but the first crack it's open
and our lives unfold before us,
as if God were giving us this chance
to relive every playful poignant moment.

the tears gently flow from our eyes
like a river upward towards the sky,
and as we float in the salty currents
the laws of gravity no longer need apply.

but as the cold attacks our core
you tap me on the shoulder:
you're feeling a bit sore
and again I'm feeling older.

we bury the box once more,
deep inside ourselves,
so we might take it still
wherever we may go.

some may thinks us fools
to believe this rusty tin with only
ten baseball cards and a worn doll
holds all the goodness in the world,

but they have not yet endured
the harsh nature of the cold;
they don't know how hard it gets
once you've gotten old.