Brown Paper Bag

Some days I feel like a brown paper bag.
Crumpled and torn,
Discarded without consequence.

Filled with miscellany and stuffed on a shelf.
On a shelf with other bags,
Old, new, shiny and plain.

Are these bags better than mine?
Is mine more special than another?
Bags full of pretence or promise.
I shall not judge,
Nor shall I be judged.

Pour out the contents and discover.
A jumble of small wonders.

Priceless lengths of metal,
A key to a forgotten portal,
A handful of tarnished coins.

Safety shoes saved for a path of thorns,
A road less and less travelled.
But never forgotten.

A nail bent under the strain of weights
To heavy, but not broken.
Ready to be straightened
And used once more.

A flower missing a peddle or two,
A little wilted, and curled,
Still a little fragrant.

In my hand is the brown bag,
Before me is the jumble of contents
Once contained.

If I could dump out
the contents of the other bags,
Are they different than mine?

Empty the contents of all the bags
Into a single pile,
And refill without prejudice.
All might be filled
Without altering the contents much.

A pair of coloured spectacles,
More or less, but who cares?
Perhaps that is how we are supposed
to stuff our bags.
What do I know?