The Music Box

Tarnished, dented, colors long gone,
one small music box on a shelf sits.
Abandoned, alone, all covered with dust,
guarding its place with other forgotten misfits.

Lift the lid, hear the sweet music inside,
sounds not heard for over two hundred years.
Slow, yet steady, a subtle minuet does play,
triggering memories, down the face flow tears.

Each note a golden memory holds,
with the sounds of angels fluttering above.
An heirloom treasured, handed down over time,
from mother to daughter with everlasting love.

This dainty minuet plays over and over,
secretly expressing the mysteries of times past.
How many hands cradled this gift so revered,
haunting, melodic, tune heard at last.

Standing here now in this library of wealth,
the collection of past tales all come to life.
Struggles of those who came before,
Loyalists and Patriots succumbed to strife.

This little music box with its dainty minuet,
an everlasting tribute survived it all.
Always cradled between two loving hands,
always waiting for the next to hear the call.

Stories of old when lovers secretly rendezvous,
behind the Gazebo, hidden by bushes and trees.
Buckled black shoes with cape and top hat,
heavy long gowns freely flowing in the breeze.

Coach and coachmen await down a muddied path,
with lanterns well lit to see them on their way.
A gift was shared that one moonlit night,
a colorful music box, dainty minuet to play.

Tarnished, dented, colors long gone,
one small music box on a shelf sits.
Abandoned, alone, all covered with dust,
guarding its place with other forgotten misfits.

Written by:
Karen Palumbo
Photography by:
Robert Palumbo
3/11/2010 © All rights reserved