by Mary Flynn
How well I recall the old boxes
Where we kept the things for the tree;
A grocery carton marked Alphabet Soup
Was where the lights would be.
The balls that we wrapped in tissue
Were packed in a wooden case
That bore the faded stenciled words,
Antique Bobbin Lace.
A worn and tattered shoebox
Was where we kept the star,
The angel was stored in a box that read,
The world’s renowned cigar.
Every fragile ornament
Was laid in a painted chest –
It belonged to my Grandpa’s mother
That’s why I liked it best.
Our precious Christmas treasures
We stored from year to year
In those old familiar boxes
That we came to hold so dear;
So, pass me the tape for patching;
There’s a lid that’s coming apart,
And I’ll keep that box a dozen more years,
And a hundred more in my heart.