The Light

I climbed the pull-down stairs into the cold.

My breath made clouds that rose and rolled,

visible in air so old.

One window let in light—

a shaft of it, precise and bright,

dust motes moving through the sight.

There were boxes.

Not many.

Mostly covered with a sheet,

like they were sleeping,

like they didn't want keeping

their secrets in the light.

I found the box I came to seek.

It was smaller than I thought, pale and weak.

The label was faded, couldn't speak.

I looked around the space.

Mostly empty, this cold place.

The light still showed the dust and grace.

My breath rose in small clouds.

The cold stayed.

The boxes stayed covered.

I went back down.