14 years
and I can see the wreckage
the aftermath of a silent war
a quiet war
that whispered between linens
and dish pans
and re-tiling the kitchen floors

black and white
checkered checkered
curtains ripped
on table cloths

14 years and you're walking
from the closets full of moths
and feathers
and your dresses from '94

way down in this Oregon town
where no one knows our names
our faces
where is God's Grace
when
you walk away?

And he tore down the old well
and built a fire pit
and started searching for gold
he's grown old
and you fluttered your wings away.