Of broken things

At the brim of the sidewalk rests

Idly in a brown cardboard box

-        A book, a hat, a vase, a cup

With chips, and rips, a string untwined.

Snowy crystals warp around

Cherry blossoms,

Pages once caressed,

indigo alpaca wool,

Now in the shadows they are hidden

-        The superfluous triad.

Passers-by ignore what

Once dear to those that owned

These pleasant little trinkets -

Have become a frostbite-slave.

In the distance snow is crunching

Shoes leave their mark behind,

To surround the box white-drowned now

And suffocate the silent whispers.

Two sapphires blink, blue is the smile,

Knees bend, gloves wipe away

The thoughts of long lost hope,

To eventually embrace.

The whispers have returned now,

Like little jingling bells,

They are to be what once they were

-        Precious, wanted, treasured.