I was at home in the crooks of your arm,
tall above the root.
Our sweet-bark skin, new spring at hand,
trepidation rendered mute.
The earth succumbed to restless sleep
as I ebbed between your palms.
The moss and shroom a witness
to the wilting of our psalm.
But the story the crow told me,
is the only one he knows:
like the morning sun you come,
and like the wind go.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
I was at home in the crooks of your arm,
tall above the root.
Our sweet-bark skin, new spring at hand,
trepidation rendered mute.
The earth succumbed to restless sleep
as I ebbed between your palms.
The moss and shroom a witness
to the wilting of our psalm.
But the story the crow told me,
is the only one he knows:
like the morning sun you come,
and like the wind go.
Thank you Grateful Dead.
