There is a battered trunk in the attic
containing my world of yesteryear.
I have lived fully but unreflectively
and the gifts I was given
found their way into the chest,
taken for granted as life hastened on.

Now as I grow old
I lift them out one by one
and gingerly hold them up
to the soft silver light of sunset
which illuminates them with a clarity
I had not seen before
in the blinding sunrays of dawn.