It's his birthday
and my boy is burying boxes -
not just any boxes,
tin boxes full of bits of him.
Not chopped off fingers
or locks of hair
but pieces of thought,
slivers of dream.
Lately his poems are about death
and now he's burying
bits of himself
beneath stone
and daffodil
and moss.
I donít think
his words will rattle in the dark:
he is planting them,
and on moonless nights
when hope is thin
they'll light up the ground,
burst like fireworks from seed.

Jane Frank

If you have any comments on this poem,  Jane Frank would be pleased to hear from you.