The Bookbag
By: Richard Whitcombe
The bookbag carelessly strewn upon the table,
Has been through many times and fables.
Half in the window's light, the other on the inside,
Acts as a portal, taking me to the outside.
The pine branches sway in the slight breeze,
The small moment of simpler times i seize.
Shadows dance back and forth, the zipper shines.
The lighting echoes in the crevices, the light resigns.
Slightly tattered, tossed upon a wooden plateau,
Reminiscing... I'm secretly captivated so.