Sometimes they come to me,
An ear-worm in a box frame of faded memory,
Playing over and over in my head,
Bringing me to the haunting days of youth,
An iridescent shimmer tinged with yellowed age,
Seen through misty rose-colored glasses.
I wonder who will sing these songs in ages to come,
As snippets slip from my lips in moments of early-morning reverie.
I thought many were forgotten,
Now I know there are hidden corners in my head,
Treasure boxes faded with time,
Priceless and ephemeral.
There are rose gardens tucked away in Southwestern ghost towns,
Rose rustlers occasionally visit for lost treasures,
Forgotten flowers from long ago.
Are we all the rose rustlers of musical history?
Break the burning silence of sunrise,
Perhaps you'll know,
Especially if the tune is light and easy to carry.
By: Daniel A. Stafford