The roots' reaching efforts, remind me of children. Attractions of my own bear similar fruit.
When a single note is played, somewhere a song responds.
And so the children continue to sprout and my own mind's seeds are past flowers.
Hanging ripe in the light of a sun of ours.
I know you know me, but please don't close your eyes.
The best pillow I've had, is the warmth of your thighs.
My favorite sin is that little white lie,
that makes me laugh when I look in your eyes.
My emotions hinged like a door in the weather.
It's the things you don't see that keep it together.
Not your lover's lament or your daddy's old leather.
The way that you feel when you follow a feather.
Simply there in the hair of a sun of ours.