New

A brand new box
of twenty-four crayons,
(not eight-too small,
not sixty-four-
beyond my wildest dreams)
their perfect tips and jackets,
each lined up
in snug order
in their yellow and green box.

I’d savor their perfection
for a bit,
the smell and shine,
opening and closing
the untattered box,
knowing that
once I began to color,
the tops would wear down,
the jackets would tear,
my fingers around them
pressing too hard,
would break them.

New crayons
meant a fresh start,
full of unformed possibility.

I still love
simple,
unburdened beginnings,
standing on the edge
of what might be.

Ready,
I’d pick one color
from its spot,
hold it over the blank page,
and wait
for an idea.

By Maria Brady-Smith