A quiet book of words, from a lonely man in his room
Her tiny voice, like pebbles rolling down a stream,
surrounded by pines
Sand between her toes, humming a song her mother used to sing,
forgot the words
Holding my head in your arms, blue little room, listening to
the wind chimes
Your bamboo forest, outside this ***** window, full of
ladybugs & grasshoppers
Green grass drying to hollow shells, snapped off by careless hands
Brushed away by gentle winds, spread among limestone & juniper
Standing barefoot on the paving stones, her toenails painted
yellow with black dandelions
A sip of iced tea, lemon, a bite of steamed rice
Trying to put a few thoughts together, letting the day simmer down
We'll sit together a while longer, listen to the crickets in the bamboo
Waiting, quietly waiting on your voice, the only thing
that keeps me dreaming anymore