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.
