This is not a song of what was lost…
of color draining from my skies
of peaks oppressed by absence weight
now dying in their earthy crib
of restless perch where once was peace
of shattered bed where once was sleep
encircling arms kept gently safe
of whispers, kisses, fire and flame.

This is not a song of what might have been…
of footsteps on a cobble street
of promises to solemn hold
of fireworks… a midnight kiss
of soaring roads beneath one’s feet
the every day, the every night
of finding home amidst the ruins
familiar, knowing, safe and sweet.

My dear
My dearest
My love
My lover

My friend

This is a song, simply, of what is…
of peaks that rise into the blue
of notes that squeeze our mortal souls
of inconvenient joy inside
the neatly, plainly packaged pain
I open it and take it out
And place it on my mantle now
To celebrate, and not forget

Irrational, unexpected
natural, nurturing
relentless, burning
comforting, hopeful.

I rest here
in this love.
I pull it
into my lungs.
My throat
opens softly.
I close my eyes
and sing.