Still Tied

In the box marked WINTER,

beneath the clothes I haven't worn,

was cloth the color of cream,

tied tight with string, the knot

made careful, not in haste,

a label with handwriting almost legible,

letters I recognized but couldn't read,

like a word you know in a language you don't speak.

I didn't untie it.

Sat with it for days, the string still tight,

whatever it wraps still wrapped,

the secret still safe,

the mystery preserved in dark.

It's easy to keep a secret if you don't look.

The cloth stays yellowed.

The string stays tight.

Some things were meant to stay

wrapped and hidden,

some answers better left

in boxes in closets in the dark.