As a child, I found room in boxes,
Four walls mounting into a firmness
Resembling my father’s hand.
Rays of light seep in between spaces,
As shadows loom and reappear from my sight.
But now, these once empty spaces
Only hold tattered clothes and naked crayons
Slowly fading into oblivion.
Their walls transformed into planks—
A barrier shielding light, where even
My shadow cannot hide in.
Outside the box, I have seen more light,
Painting my skin yellow and warm,
Diminishing my shadow.
As I dance with the wind, the boxes
Tumble down, corroding mercilessly
Under the nebulous blue skies.
Kristine Joy L. Dabbay
