It is small. My box. Well thumbed.
It is a door I enter, shut behind.
Sometimes I must stay there until I can breathe.
Put down the things I handle overmuch.
Come up for air.
It is small but roomy for the
Way it stretches back, and forward.
History in the things collected, polished,
Placed on the shelf.
A box, a door, a room all my own.
Everyone needs somewhere to go.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry