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
June 2020
Living Tree Poetry 
Beautiful liminal space
LikeLike
Thank you Herb! Not everyone understands this poem.
LikeLike
The enchanting & powerful balm of solitude
And an equally delightful room with a view to encase it
LikeLiked by 1 person
Love how your replies make me think, and feel.
LikeLike
A simple healing image for everyone.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I am pleased Maren, thank you.
LikeLike