Out of the Box

Decades of my life disappear into one box
that multiplies when my back is turned, turn to building blocks
of cardboard to hold what think important. Each tier mocks —
somewhere in there are blue coral from I sea I can’t recall, rocks
that echo a canyon wren’s song keys to locks
of houses I no longer own, more keys to old clocks
that no longer run. Do their gears move slowly, their tocks
still tick beneath layers of sweaters, thick blankets, matchless socks? 
Would I hear a rustle behind corrugated walls if my little clay fox
 flicked his cupped ears toward the snow geese flocks
that web white contrails overhead. Will bittersweet vine fill crocks
of brown pottery beside some new-to-me door, as I wait for the knocks
of neighbors to say Welcome to your home! Is this sorting a blessing or pox?
I might find the answer in this one last box.