THE OLD BUTTON BOX

When I was just a child,

Five or six or more,

I liked to sneak my hand

Into Grandma’s button drawer.

I’d dip and scoop and stir

My fingers through the past,

Remnants of her handiwork,

Strong and meant to last.

Buttons large and buttons small,

A thread or two still there.

Some were rough with fabric,

Others slick and bare.

Years have worn out all the clothes,

But one thing does remain,

Sifting fingers through the drawer

Brings Grandma home again.