I've gone to gather my dreams
from the gold of the fields-
out of the far 'way trees-
out from the meadows around me.
Dreams, like those of raindrop souls,
or wings of birds, broken
upon the earth.
Thoughts, which evening rains bring,
create holes through my perception
of innocence.
Her small face, turns gray of pain,
yet so angelic in her remembrance.
Tear the vale of dust away,
that harbors the butterfly,
keeps the soul,
for soon, she will fly far one day,
released from the vices
which darkness holds.
And the ghost of this child,
shall not turn inward and old, yet,
voice her song amidst the gathering
of lambs on a hillside.
But all things which sing inside me,
cry- laughter fades, tears, repetitive,
and no music will fill her empty room again.
Though, I've heard in the dark,
a voice of a child, that takes me deep
to contentment, and snuffs out the fire.
The touch of autumn winds-
a distant clash of thunder...
every now and then, somewhere
in my heart, her restless spirit
takes pleasure, and shapes herself
into quiet, calm measures...
and 'tis worth the waiting, of the year.