The Box

I’ve left the toys from another day,
sorted them out, boxed the away.
I’ve no use for them now.
Except
Except when the wind cuts like a knife
and I feel the burden and weight of strife,
it’s then I hold the box.
Close
Close to the place where pain resides,
pressed to my heart where anguish hides
and I feel a sense of peace.
Strange
Strange how the things of yesterday
still have the power to change the way
I face the toughest times.
Inside
Inside my box are prayers and creeds,
the ritual acts I no longer need
to make sense of this world.
Yet
Yet, why can I not let them go?
Why do they possess me so?
What mystery is this?
Perhaps
Perhaps these acts of sacred rite
still shine within the darkest night,
a Light that will not dim.
So
So, I’ll keep this old box;  it’s a mystery to me,
but, then, I’ve never made a star or a tree.
But I know the source of life.