the path is worn
as if o’er time –
the way might be erased
tho flowers bloom each Sunday
after all
midnight yearns
and I have learned –
tis not for me to squander
the hope for one more
morning –
wherever promise falls

each time
I think I might be gone
I find the door ajar –
locks once held the windows
rusted now
lights I thought would never burn
stream a golden pasture
echoes ring
remember me –
should e’er your heart
allow

. . .