No matter how much you want to, you cannot do the work for others. Where did they go, those cool pine-scented nights that breathed so quietly you believed no harm could come to those you loved? Boats melt into the bluegreen dapple of evening; a fountain turns itself on somewhere. The water as tender as a new wound— How long and hard you've prayed for some kind of angel to scatter the dark birds that keep coming to rest in your children's hair.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.