Shadow Box

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In bended shapes
A woman takes
The scraps of all she finds
With smallish hands
And sewing thread
To fasten it together

Behind the drapes
A record plays
To help her pass the time
In other plans
Her tired head
Can see a world that’s better

The souvenirs
Of early years
Adorn a faded quilt
Awaiting some
Appointed time
In patient little piles

Her bottled tears
And casual stares
The treasures she has built
With baby’s hair
And turpentine
Above the kitchen tiles

The winter fox
Beneath the porch
Is hiding from the hunters
Her picket fence
Is broken where
The tree line meets the field

Her shadow box
And story boards
Will hold her through ’till summer
In finger dance
The rocking chair
Beside her window sill