i crossed the creek
at sunday dawn
before the light
burned golden
closed my eyes
to listen
as wild
the heart was come
wings were barely touching
souls the same
as mine

do you ever
won’t you tarry
in places I am keeping
one hundred years
a bed
nobody owns
becoming mine
when grampa died
sometimes i hear
him playing –
a banjo meant for
crooked boards and wine

once before
the way was lost
i thought a while
for this –
of breath
when there was nothing
else to know
wing’eds press
against the blue
woodsmoke sunday morning
the creek is rising
soon i’ll come
for you

. . .