, , , , , , , , , , ,

there are mornings
worlds denied a map –
lands these hands
have wandered far to know
paths and constellations
arms to wrap around –
traces of a place
remains of home

a story worth repeating
as memory of grace
to see the moon
reflected in your eyes
clover made to blanket
blooms beyond the barn
I want to feel
the breath of heaven
as I rise

. . .