I imagine a house with spreading eaves to branching canopies of leaves, come spring. In bud and blossoming, they’d bring forth blushing summer fruits to feed what comes on wing to nest, and sing amid the limbs, and rest in cool green light, to darkling deeps of starry night - their souls to keep a touch more safe. And grateful for the welcoming roof I’ve built, and build. A restful place, for busy lives. For this we live, and die, and kill.
It’s worth our lives, to find such peace. It makes sense now. It’s beautiful. It’s winning, charming, caught and held. There is a secret I could tell. The plainest truth, unfinishing. If anybody needs me now? I will be in the living room beneath the roots, diminishing.
No comments:
Post a Comment