the wind carries a prayer-on the
breath of a blooming mountain willow,
the rush of a river bed, below the
beat of a hoof.
And in the creak of a saddle,
There I am.
On a crisp morning with
coffee steam rising
and the chatter of a magpie,
the crackle of campfire,
There I am.
For a memory may be no more tangible than
wrapping your arms around love
But no less real.
It is the end of the day-the sun
finally rests behind the
peaks of a mountain valley.
There I am.
Erin Jameson Gray
For Papa
No comments:
Post a Comment