I should find it right here. There
behind the 60s. Yes, that’s it, that box,
the 50s, when I happened. My folks
used to joke, they’d found me in a heap
of leaves raked up for fall, more autumnal.
I’ve loved yardwork. Without yardwork
It’s come fall again, but that’s the current box,
Right up front. The ‘20s. No roaring now.
A lion’s gray beard, sleepiness, shows the time.
Passages, packed away, no fancy wrapping paper,
no bows. Plain brown boxes, not gifts, or maybe,
some would say.
Lanning Lee 