Before I picked my first blueberry of the season, I knew I could grow old with you.
There is a song inside me it raises with your palm.
Somewhere between the Yellow Dog (river), Little Garlic Falls and the blueberry patches on the Mulligan Plains, I lost my cell phone and it was like loosing my innocence all over again but different.
“…coming home to all these hippies cooking in my kitchen,” He said.
I garden for coffee.
I needed to drive 90mph with Zydeco, loud. See I am no different from your son crashing down the trail like a bear.
There were days of swords and ice, swords and ice…
As my chakras spin faster, butterflies let loose, lavender in the yard, in my hair, over my skin as your hands reach up…
I fly over the Altamont Bridge to lay by your side. Writing this brings me to you and again to our dance in the yard. That’s the challenge of writing isn’t it? Everything comes out sounding cliché and you can never freeze a moment. I have learned to like fruit salad at your table, kiwi and grapes, peach and plum. My tastes changed. If I told you, would you understand this? Fiddle Music plays in my heart. (It sounds like Daisy May smiling)