, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


beyond my prayer
this thought becomes –
a plea for understanding
hands confessed
to steady
beats the drum

liar liar
claim the fire
will set the night aflame
and swear me not
to stories
of a time I loved
the same

of babydolls
and choochoo trains
someone left to listen –
lessons brushed with flannel
cowboy dreams

move the bed
and light the longing –
read the pages bent
balanced not the living
with the loss –
to wander me
Sunday morning sometimes –
as lacey white the feathers
of a dove

stills the breath
beneath the covers
seasons pass again –
with only this for keeping
until then

in empty fields
the sunlight wakes –
with memory of another
the sins of turning back
at last are gone

permission to surrender
these skies to cross into
lead me back
where I am known
by everything I knew

. . .