The sky is masked
with billows of gray clouds
that have made their journey from the north
and move without haste
about the Gateway to the West.

No bird casts its silhouette
against the dreary backdrop,
and rain falls
like tears from our eyes:
two wanderers
hands interwoven,
trying to find a place to call home
so our weary feet can rest.

Oh, we are prone to wander.

She rests her head on my shoulder,
her soft brown hair falls
gently across her amber green eyes.
I rest my head on hers,
and we are timeless.

She whispers: "Everything is going to be okay"

I drive west
and she drives east
and rivers and roads
finally fall between us again.

The sky breaks its masquerade
and the gray dissipates
and the blue is radiant.
The birds take flight,
their wings directed toward
the four winds-
no concern for
northsoutheastwest.

I look up and whisper:

*"Everything is going to be okay"