Sky Box

questioning life and existence

Lichen covered wooden box with a hole in it hanging from a long ago cloths line pole, what are you? I see the rain wash you and the sun dry you and sometimes I see pieces of the sky fly to and inhabit you. What are you that the sky seeks you in the spring, what are you that hang there worn and weary from the years of storm, wind and sun? The sky flutters and flies to you, the sky multiplies because of you, you a useless wooden box, why does the sky need you?