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Racing through the ragged weeds
that overgrew the garden lane,
I came upon an empty house
with windows broken through.
Grey squirrels watched me from the sill.
A blackbird flew above the walls.
Dry autumn leaves were blowing hard
around the kitchen floor.
Passing through a broken door,
I walked beside the dusty walls.
The wind kept blowing dust and straw
into my face and hair.
I climbed up the creaking stairs,
and walked along a darkened hall.
I found a room off to the right
that had a cedar chest.
Wind was blowing very hard
through broken windows, gaping walls.
I opened up the cedar chest,
and took a peek inside.
Pictures of a little girl
were lying on a folded quilt;
and underneath that homemade quilt:
a dusty little book.
Opening the little book,
I found it full of tiny words.
I took it to the broken panes,
and read some pages through.
Words of sorrow, words of woe
came tumbling from its tattered leaves:
the story of a little girl
who died one autumn day.
Words of prose and words of verse
expressed the sorrow of the one
who kept the record of her loss
locked in the cedar chest.
Lifting up the cedar chest,
I took it with me down the stairs.
I took it through the ragged weeds
and placed it in my car.
Glancing back toward the house,
I chanced to see the broken panes
that I had stood beside to read
that tragic little book.
Standing by the window panes,
in pinafore, with braided hair,
a little girl smiled down at me,
and waved her tiny hand.
