The Box 1972I am in a box.
The four corners are my people.
The solid wall of my sister,
The granite mountain of my father,
The yawning pit of my mother,
The flower-peopled fields of everyone-else.
If I turn my back on the wall,
And escape from under the mountain,
And walk away from the edge of the pit,
That leaves only the distant potential of the flowered fields.
How shall I not find my way to them?
How could there not be,
Amongst all that great variety,
The warmth and affection that I seek for my soul?
Walk away; walk away, you must!
For there among the flowers,
Is one who will see your light approach,
And know his time to bloom has finally come.
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