Grandma kept a button box
Up on the shelf beside the clock.
She’d bring it down on rainy days
And lift the lid in careful ways.
Then all the buttons shined and stared,
Mixed all up and never paired.
Big white ones from winter coats,
Tiny ones from baby throats
No, not throats
From baby shirts
I wrote that wrong
That line still works.
There were pearl ones, brass ones, red ones, blue,
One shaped almost like a drop of dew,
One with a crack, one made of wood,
One that looked too grand for common good.
I liked to dig down with my hand
And let them slide like little sand,
Cold and smooth and hard and small,
Like pocket treasure for dolls.
Grandma said each one came off
Some Sunday coat or apron cloth,
Some school dress, mitten, hat, or vest,
And now they all just stayed to rest.
I liked that thought.
A box could keep
The quiet things
That people leave.