There was the story you kept in a box The one you pickled in a jar And the one you folded under the sheets Covered and clean, neat and nutty On tatami woven floors. I recognized it when it fell out and followed it home. Followed it home like you followed Grandpa at twenty-three To a home you built together with wishes and screens To the country seat, far from Tokyo Where you visited your stepmother’s farm as a child And tended kittens and sheep The place you haven’t been since. But we have. When you tell us—story us— And we go To those old and open waters Where men still throw wooden tokens to bid on fish To the hush and chime of grassy, graveyard stones Where our ancestors sit, beckon, and laugh To the house, now bones, where you grew younger and younger As words veined their way through your hands Making old things new And new things old.
New Things Old
I love this.