Pocket Treasures

A tanka in six parts

When I was younger,
I kept my sacred treasures 
In my jean pocket
Where they’d be safely guarded
From mischievous Sister.

To an outsider
My pocket contents had no
Meaning, or value.
But to me they were treasures
Worth more than gold or silver.

My pocket contained
A small, brown, beat up penknife;
A copper penny,
Indian head on its face;
And a small, blue glass marble.

Those three small objects 
Were all I needed to make 
Stories in my head,
To transport me from this land
To where I could never go.

A few years ago,
When going through some boxes,
I pulled those objects
Into the light once again
After many years hidden.

As I held them up
Twisting them in my big hands,
They now seemed so small
When once they seemed so immense.
Time moved on — but they remained.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.