The first box that arrived felt measured in stirring its love, took its time and danced a slow, involuntary drudge. The second box swooped in- full tilt, red, white and blue, its gruesome melody taunting me in a complicit rue. The third box that came home, yellow pine aroma aloft, pinched the air, stench of a war movie I’d watched. The fourth box that reared its death to the terminal skies marched with a cadence, lockstep primordial demise. The fifth and sixth and the three thousandth box to come suffered horror, hundreds of millions of gutless tongues. © 2009 by mark prime
(The Weaver's Song)