It is late, the sky is black slate, coal
a desolate moon glow, cold
this silent world flecked with tiny lights
diffused amid the softness of clouds
the night, only a blooming dawn
a field of stars that come.

In the spring of warm grassy lawns, silver threaded
song sparrows high amid the bright lily bowers
they fly gold drenched in the morning hours
in the deep peace of this sanctuary shelter
we are far from the city's maddening swelter
here beneath shade trees and roses, we sip tea
we float soft as petals, a dream life in these hills
smell the ocean rain, blue the way the sky spills
we walk scented jasmine trails back home
come to rest in each others arms
before this resplendent day is gone
with nature becoming one
connected to all things
we are never alone.

When I don't see you, here or in the places we've been
in prairie meadows or in these trailing hills
I am lonesome, listening to how the ocean spills
blue waves play a sorrowful song
I get lost in thought, ruminate long on our walks
my feet here in these tiny flowers, the ones that we picked
I think of all the gardens, yesterday, today and tomorrow
my eyes fly far off with birds, disappearing
into some heavenly place, where you are.

It was wind and wild - sunset on the California coast
we watched the birds seemingly fly backwards
seagulls and brown pelicans
the wind bit my cheeks quite red
barefoot, we sank in the cooling sands
watching the final flash of glassy sun
firewater reflecting on the darkened lands
the sky swallowed the sailing light away
with the half moon askew above the bay.