The Secret Keeper

I pull at the handle, a brass, tarnished eye,

where secrets are wedged, and memories lie.

Dust motes dance like thoughts, trapped in a dream,

held hostage by time, by the weight of a seam.

In the wood’s stubborn grip, stories await,

letters from lovers, perhaps notes of fate.

Yet here I am stuck, a child in the now,

waiting for echoes, lost trinkets to bow.