Grandmother. 

A rocking chair.

A back and forth. 

From present to past,

Past to present, as

Future rests uncertain.

 

Myriad tales to be told,

As the phantoms of yore

Loom more real than

The aims of today. 

 

An anticlockwise choreography 

Needs seatbelts fastened,

The fireplace crackling, as

Lanes traversed are interspersed

With paths forsaken. 

 

It takes a lifetime

To be a life's architect,

And the stories in the storybox 

Can only grant a glimpse,

But how fortunate you are

To be gifted its key.