There must be water.
A hollowed-out lake, warm as bathwater in summer,
Near a glinting creek, that runs fast and shallow,
With the smoothest pebbles, that fit snug in our hands.
And hills. There must be hills.
Saddlebacks, blanketed in trees, where the sunset lingers,
The very shape of it, a memory of Hardin country,
So those who are gone, can feel back home too.
And wanderers return,
From the skyscrapers that house their dreams,
To a place that offers them a moment’s rest,
Where they can find their souls renewed.
A place, not too big, or small.
A porch to watch cardinals flash across fresh snowfall,
Or grow vast-headed sunflowers, tall as roof shingles,
And a rusty hook, where a wind chime sings in whispers.
With woods, gentle woods,
Carved by paths that meander, like creeper vines,
Where each morning arrowheads of light slant through,
And the only boot marks we ever see, are ours.
A precious kind of peacefulness,
To write or to read, or just to be lazily still,
A spiral of wood smoke and the crackle of a firepit,
Or perhaps the sway of music in the night.
And You. Above all, there must be you.
With a pendulum to swing in, so time can unravel as it pleases,
Our solitude finding its own beautiful rhythm,
Until all that matters, is the comfort of your lines.
To G. , Happy Birthday 2019.
Love you, A oxo