#127 WARM NOVEMBER
#127 WARM NOVEMBER
(Americana)
I carry this story way deep in my heart,
Its burden still drags me down.
The place and the moment a life came apart,
And misery was then unbound.
Of the full tale, I am but a chapter,
She told me the story that I now lend.
To begin with the one thing that matters ,
We must start now at the end.
Heavy rain -- edge of quarry, deep, dark and large,
Her fists tight and trembling, pulse racing, mouth parched.
There stands Annie Dalton, and she remembers,
One bright-blue clear day, warm November.
A trip with her daddy -- limestone cliffs shone,
Hand in hand, they walked the ridge.
She kept pulling away, he said,
“Be careful, stay well clear of the edge.”
She slipped on the gravel, he reached out too fast,
A shout, then she saw a splash far below.
She knelt frozen at the rim -- clouds drifted past,
And waited, knowing not where to go.
Alone atop that quarry, still warm with day’s light,
The birds turned to shadows, time turned edge of night.
There cries Annie Dalton, her eyes fixed and wide,
Stock still and staring, 'til the search party arrives.
Her mama kept saying, “It wasn’t your fault,”
But ma's eyes told of sorrow concealed.
In her chair, by the fire -- the silence grew fraught,
One day from grief her tired heart finally yields.
Annie grew up hard, tall and silent,
Aunt Martha's house was warm, but never felt right.
Annie learned guitar -- played til her fingers bled,
Dark bars to sing her songs -- most every night.
The years and the taverns, the night and the din,
She searched for forgiveness in songs, drink and men.
There plays Annie Dalton, her heart torn apart,
Singing songs of that day -- quarry's edge, gathering dark.
We met one spring night when she sang strong and sweet,
Her voice floated over the din of the bar.
I heard her songs as a promise, defiant and proud,
Bought her a beer, kissed her under the stars
Lying in bed, she said she was broken,
Tired from dragging dark thoughts of her past.
I sat up, reached over, took her hand,
Said "Let's unbreak that broken, build a better that lasts."
By fall colors, only fighting -- my shouting, her pain,
One day when she talked about it, I yelled "Not again!"
There falls Annie Dalton, after I did my part:
Weakened her will, locked her out of my heart.
She followed her father down into unending quiet,
They say I must find peace --not ready to buy it.
But I can hope your path is more sunshine than grey,
And miles from Annie Dalton's warm November day.