Born in northern forests ofAustralia centuries agoAnd carved from yellow jarrah,My wooden treasure boxHolds secrets of its own.

Felled for ballast on sailing ships,It traveled over distant oceansAnd touched exotic shores,Seeking the spirit of Africa.

Abandoned on the docks,The jarrah became railroad ties,Carrying steam enginesAcross the dry,Burned colors of a continent.

Polished and alive againAfter four hundred years,The box captures within itThe roar of a startled lion,The thundering hooves of wildebeestAnd the long, graceful loping of giraffes.

Our secrets are treasuredTogether nowWith the shimmering heat of the plain,And warm a space for my own memoriesStill waiting to unfold.