An Old Wooden Box

As a child in Georgia, the trees all seemed so tall and grand. They seemed to wave to me from the window 

... the delicate hands in night shade. They whipped and whispered to me dreams of the past. The very visions of what once was there, had lit the lampposts on our cobblestone streets. The past did tickle my very moods... it hid around corners and danced out in shadows, reflections and oval shaped frames in my minds eye.

In these days I had captures my dreams in an old wooden box. My imagination's imagination had just been discovered. It may sounds confusing and grinningly poetic, but it is the truth I print to page. My imagination had been a vast body of water before, yet it had grown to become an ocean with in that ocean... a massive forest with in the woods... door way after door way in a never ending house.  This box I kept my dreams with in was no ordinary box at all, but a magical shell of unending space. To open this box was to let the light out into our world as we know it.

Since then, the box has become my canvas. The walls with the box are painted and repainted... and there are a great many boxes more then before!