Senescence: An Abecedarian

All the signs were pointing here: of course I knew;
              but we were enthralled by so much along the way. 
Chests of drawers bulge with finds from those years.
              Dimpled ottomans match the fold-out sofa for
every guest that might visit, and lamps hold open 
             fan-like shades, light as paper. There's a throw pillow,
green with a stencilled motto: I like clever words,
             hummingbirds, and beautiful things.  
It's one of those do-I-want-it or do-I-need-it objects—
             just one more, until the closets are full.
Keyboard's gone, but a friend gave us an upright piano;
             longing pressed out across eight octaves.
Mostly we slide each day along its string, spread
             nights like an awning over the rough spots.
Only a seer, perhaps, could tell how things 
             play out. Or a prophet. But even they still
query the unknown. I want to do inventory before I
             rue what can't be made over or taken back,
start letting go of surplus. How exactly is this done?
            Tell me there's still a horse out there cantering on  
umber sands, oblivious to the pounding surf.
             Violins being tuned before an outdoor concert
waft unmatched chords in the air. Asperitas clouds  
            extend miles of upside down waves across the sky,
yearning for their very own sea. Here's our penultimate
            zone: but no last meals yet, no final scores.