The Silent Language of Lost Buttons

In dusty corners, where shadows convene,
And sunlight spills patterns across the bare floor,
Lie scattered relics, once sharply pristine,
Now murmuring stories we seldom explore.

The lost buttons linger, a silent array,
Tiny historians of moments gone past,
Each a miniature memoir, marking the day,
Emotions were clasped, and then couldn't hold fast.

A pearl button, opalescent and smooth,
Recalls the soft rustle of silk at a ball,
The laughter that echoed, the whispered sweet truth,
The touch of a hand, lest a partner should fall.

A faint, ghostly click, the ghost of a clasp,
Whispers of waltzes and candelabra's gleam,
A memory fragile, that time cannot rasp,
A forgotten elegance, a beautiful dream.

The wooden one, weathered and worn at the edge,
Remembers the tweed of a jacket so old,
The comforting warmth at a window's high ledge,
The scent of pipe tobacco, a story unfolds.

A scrape on its surface, a child's hurried hand,
Reaching for comfort, a father's embrace,
A narrative etched in this humble command,
Of love and belonging, imprinted in place.

The brass military button, embossed with a crest,
Speaks of parades, of a soldier's proud stride,
Of letters sent home, put bravely to test,
And the weight of a nation, worn deep inside.

A faint metallic clang, a salute long since past,
Echoes of duty, of courage and might,
A moment in history, meant to forever last,
Held captive within, in the fading of light.

A brightly coloured plastic one, chipped and so small,
Recalls a child's dress, vibrant yellow and red,
The joy of a picnic, a playful free call,
A sticky ice cream cone, quickly being spread.

A soft, muffled click, as it tumbled and spun,
A burst of pure laughter, so innocent and bright,
A chapter of childhood, deliciously fun,
Lost now, but glowing within the soft light.

Then came a young child, with eyes wide and keen,
Whose heart held a language the world couldn't hear.
She knelt by the treasures, scattered and unseen,
And listened intently, dispelling all fear.

Her fingers, so gentle, would trace every line,

Each material speaking, each colour a clue.
She heard the soft murmurs, so subtly divine,
Of lives interconnected, honest and true.
She gathered them carefully, cupping them near,

A mosaic of moments, a history untold.
The clicking and scraping, so crystal and clear,
Revealed tales of bravery, timid and bold.
The child, with her empathy, patient and deep,
Became their historian, their voice in the world.

From slumbering silence, their stories would leap,
As forgotten narratives gracefully unfurled.
For buttons, though humble, and often unseen,
Are fragments of journeys, both grand and minute.
Each loop and each stitch, a significant scene,
In the tapestry woven, where lives intersect.

And the child understood, with a wisdom so rare,
That even small objects, discarded and lone,
Hold echoes of feelings, suspended in air,
A silent language, waiting to be known.

- Khushi Kaul

Through texture and tint, and the wear and the tear,

They whispered their secrets, for one heart to find,

Proving that meaning is everywhere here,

In the smallest of treasures, carefully enshrined.