Between Each Step

The fiddle starts as if it always knew

The hour dusk would lean on windowpanes,

And call the worn-out floor to wake again

Beneath the weight of shoes that come and go.

I take a hand—not new, not wholly known—

But warm enough to trust a turning path.

We move as though the music tells the truth

Of where to step, though neither of us sees.

A forward glide, a backstep just as sure,

A pivot where the world could slip away—

Yet doesn’t. Not if one still holds on fast,

And listens close for where the rhythm bends.

There was a time I stood beside the wall,

Content to watch the others spin and laugh,

As if their lives were set to steadier time

Than anything my hesitant feet could find.

But songs, like years, don’t wait for doubt to fade.

They pull you in between what was and is—

And ask if you will risk a single step

Before the final chord is played and gone.

So here we turn—uncertain, still in time—

Through patterns neither one of us designed.

And maybe life is nothing more than this:

A borrowed hand, a floor, a fleeting tune—

Where missing steps are folded into grace,

And every ending bows into the next.