for this touch
to trade
the evening news
a voice I swear I know
sits within
the meadow of my soul

reminding me
of seasons past
times I couldn’t stay
surviving
for another –
to remember me
this way

in sheets
of softest flannel
tiny yellow blooms
are wrapped against
the place
that holds my song
just beyond the distance
sparrows fill the trees –
where dreams are lost
to others
I belong

soft the swell
of silence
asleep beneath the bed
wherein the past
is tempt to keep me here
violins are playing –
as crickets cry amen
flannel wills the darkness
disappear

. . .