Brittle Weave of Forgotten Things

Under the porch, I find it — a wicker basket

cracked, sun-bleached, the weave fragile as old bones.

I lift the lid — dried leaves tumble out,

whispering dusty afternoons I can’t place.

Strands stick out, brittle, pleading not to be tossed,

a skeleton of summer caught in tangled loops.

It smells of must and time, a slow decay

that holds more stories than I can carry.

I trace the cracks, the frayed edges,

a fragile cage for forgotten things,

half-wanting to keep it,

half-knowing it’s already gone too far.