Make me thunder tea
brew with leaves of falling rain
use a lightning spoon

Change in my pocket jingles
I wonder how many ears
in previous years
have also heard the music
of these little clanking bells
who could ever tell
but the feeling lingers
as I move them through my fingers

To be a bird
free on the breeze
taking in the charm of trees
to feel the light and taste the air
is not a gift that we can share
shackled to the ground it seems
we must content ourselves with dreams
leaving you to own the sky
while we look up and long to fly

Faith is a fruit tree
stripped bare of leaves and blossom
waiting for the spring

Clinging spider webs
settle on the frosted tomb
of a loving heart

Margaret's fingers clasped and still
white birds upon her window sill
silent doves that came to rest
sleeping now upon her chest
each settled bird that came to land
will fly no more from Margaret’s hands

Margaret's hands are small and white
they will never hug her mother
or feel a lovers hand squeeze hers
never play piano like her sister Maud
or wear a wedding ring
not any of these things
Margaret's hands are marble still
each dove at rest upon her chest