This reminds of the time spent
By the buckeye tree of quiet family;
I could trace long fingers in the dirt
And my mother told me what it was worth
As my father watched on quietly.
This is how time wound us down,
Now we spin in private circles
And scuff our shoes and streak the floor.
I never meant to dance around the door,
But absent bells ring in my ears as a symphony.
It's cold enough to snow here,
But we're all waiting for that somebody.