Was it a fragrant sunny day
when fingers plucked living grasses?
Digging deep in the waters edge
for groundings of strong, rampant reeds.
What skilled hands were responsible
for laying these precious fruits to dry.
Now nimbly woven, carefully crafted
they hold another’s treasure-trove.
A diary - feeding childhood dreams -
or a sweater - comfort soft -
silver slippers for dancing feet?
A scarf perhaps - tangerine and indigo,
lightly perfumed from a moment lost;
teasled edges wrought by fretful fingers.
Does this cache of woven reeds now
hold a secret as powerful as its founding
upon that distant sunny day?
Or is it just a basket - full of youthful fancy
freely giving of its trove away?
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