I linger at the bed’s edge—
The milk of a morning moon pouring in through the picture windows,
Stirred with the pinks and paling starry winks of a chased night waning—
Holding in my hands a tiny cedar chest,
As over its simple carvings I let a thoughtful finger quest;
It would, I ponder, to a pauper be priceless.
I took it from the hearth’s ledge—
The flames of a failing fire flashing from embers in warm crescendos,
A dance in the draft of the chimney shaft, the heat is yet sustaining—
Seeking for my soul a reflective rest,
As hidden in the wood grain I count a thousand breaths blessed;
It would, I reckon, to a thinker be timeless.
I open the felt-lined lid—
The cloth of music is sewn as the spiny drum spins its wonder-thread,
Along the walls of a haunted heart’s halls it hangs as an echo—
And I’m taken by this token into her dreams,
As the silvery symphony spirals to love’s loftier beams;
It would, I fancy, to a songsmith be flawless.
Though still, I’m more the fervid—
The music box slowing as I muse after the beauty in my bed;
Forgiveness, a friend, a gift, a godsend, yes, my life’s roundest halo—
And the pauper, the thinker, the songsmith, it seems,
Are each and all me as I leave open this charm of deeper themes;
It shan’t, by my hope, be unwound or found keyless.