The Tin Box

(For Mom, who took the time to raise me.)

I remember Mother would, when we were tired of play

Pull down the tin box, its contents captive in disarray.

She would pour them out on the table, ask us to sort

We were glad for the challenge, didn’t argue or retort.

We spent time putting together in size, color and shape

Buttons snipped from old clothes for some future date.

Remembered the buttons, remembered each of their roles

They had distinct personalities, with one or more holes.

As we completed our task, Mom would beam with pride

She’d carefully scoop them all up and return them inside.

An exercise in perseverance, not just colors and shape.

The simple tasks of those days, helped form adult state.

~ J.E. Dyrholm ~