But in the main, 
I feel like a brown bag of miscellany propped against a wall. 
Against a wall in company with other bags, white, red and yellow.
Pour out the contents,  and there is discovered a jumble of small, things
priceless and worthless. 
A first-water diamond,  an empty spool, bits of broken glass, 
lengths of string,  a key to a door long since crumbled away, 
a rusty knife-blade,  old shoes saved for a road that never was 
and never will be,  a nail bent under the weight 
of things too heavy for any nail,  a dried flower or two still a little fragrant. 
In your hand is the brown bag. 
On the ground before you is the jumble 
it held–so much like the jumble in the bags, 
could they be emptied, that all might be dumped in a single heap 
and the bags refilled without altering the content of any greatly. 
A bit of colored glass more or less would not matter. 
Perhaps that is how the Great Stuffer of Bags 
filled them in the first place–who knows