We pick up the broken pieces of the music box
and gently lay them in their places again.
Once more, the machine plinks out its tune
and we listen. These are of the old days,
when the light shone through the window panes
and illuminated all our hopes and fears,
focusing them into one small corner of our
untarnished hearts. These are the glory days,
when we dined with Grandma’s fine china
and served each other water and Oreos.
The days when You and I danced in the fields
and o! our dreams made us. These are the golden days,
when the grass’ padding beneath our feet
and the skies begged us to make music
with our children’s violins. I see now a hawk
in the sky, circling our favorite meetingplace.