this is memory —
or this is dreams —
or this is a memory of dreams.
I lie
(a darkly-yearning thing)
waiting for you
to cross the bridge,
from where you come,
to where you go
You are lithe and fair and solitary —
the keeper of my hope
feel my heart like music carried on the wind
run to me, trailing sunlight
leap, a backwards child, into this forest womb
I lie
(a darkly-yearning thing)
waiting
to catch you in my arms.
*****
Photo by Sandra Peterson Ramirez.
Text by td Whittle.