| She sits at the window And watches the birds Pecking the ground And calling from trees. She closes her eyes And remembers those words As the years tumble backward And are lost in the breeze. It old was even then, Back when they both were young -- A music box purchased From a secondhand store. It sure wasn't much But the song that it sung Meant more than the ring That he couldn't afford. The decades rolled forward. They had sorrows and laughs. The music played on, So soft on the ear. But then came the day When he finally passed. The music played on, And she persevered. | She sits at the window Staring out in a daze, Not moving except To wind the box in her lap. The nurse takes her shoulder And wheels her away, Back to her room In time for her nap. She closes her eyes As she lays her head down. Opens her hand, And drifts off to sleep. The music box dancer Keeps turning around. Her secrets kept safe To silently keep. The music now slows In pace with the time. The dancer, she halts, And the widow is gone. The box lies there quiet With no hand to wind. And yet still she smiles As the tune plays on. |
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 | These twenty-five poems explore the dark paths on our walks through life: addiction, bereavement, solitude, and more. These are the forgotten spaces, blighted areas we pretend don't exist. Everybody's got one. For some, it's outside their windows; others, it's under their very roofs. But regardless of where these dark places are, a pit of quicksand is just as deadly no matter where located. Tread lightly. |
