My Coins (a poem)

My Coins

Written May 5th, 2012

The little wooden box

Has lost the shine on its finish

And appears dim and tires

Like its special contents

But I think the ancient look

Makes it interesting-

Alerts the viewer to a hidden

Mysterious treasure.

A dragon flies across the lid

Suspended in the wood

His maw open in a roar

Warning the evil doers

That he protects the contents

Fearlessly.

Sometimes, even when I have nothing

To feed the box with,

When I have time

And the mood,

I sit criss-cross on the carpet

Open the box (the dragon lets me)

And dump everything on the floor

And there I sit, sorting, admiring,

For an hour, usually more.

Their perfume of metal tang

And perhaps a little oil

Seeps into the air

And fills the tiny unique tracks

In the skin of my palms.

Most people like shiny, pretty things

But many of these are dull

Past their prime and glory days

And yet, it’s the ancient ones

Those that sparkle like ashes

That intrigue me the most

The grandfathers

Who have traveled to a thousand places

And passed through ten thousand lives.

I roll them through my fingers

Note their age

Examine the engravings of people and monuments

That were important in a past time

The tiniest shrines

I wonder who they met

And how many pockets they settled

And where their favorite place is

That they’ve ever been.

There’s stories in them, and you can hear

If you’re quiet, and listen

I wonder if they miss their

Youthful gypsy days

And long to be freed

Or if they’re content

Settling down and retiring

In the box my daddy bestowed me

With a dragon protecting them.

The typical reason you hear

To justify why people collect

Simple circles of metal-

(Are they really worth anything?)

The reason I say myself-

Is that, like wine, if you let them set

While their brothers and cousins die,

They become rarer

And the longer they hide

The more people remember them,

And miss them,

And eventually, they become very,

Very valuable.

In my old age, or perhaps

For my kids, or theirs,

They can be sold for a pretty penny.

Yet, I bet

When I have ripened

And they have as well

I won’t sell a single one

In my heart, I never collected them

For a value, a profit;

At least, not in terms of money

I gathered them for a worth

Much deeper than that.

I love them, every one

Like a friend

Because they took the time

To tell me their stories

Time and time again

And they fill some empty crevice

In my heart;

A yearning

That I cannot define;

When I need it.

Perhaps it comes from

The tempting, undecipherable whispers

Of the past, a past

My coins have survived.