Heaven can wait - and it will.
The red dirt of Oklahoma lies still beneath your skin,
as you remember a dense path woven of weeds and rose rocks -
remnants of neglect carved sharp rivulets
from your unblinking lashes.
You run east to west, seeking wisdom,
writing in your journal
of all you have witnessed
within this broad spectrum of landscape.
There is much to be learned
from dark canopies of sequoias
that linger in your wide-eyed gaze -
douglas firs permeate
your present state of consciousness -
waves of sound rise
from torrential seas of Nashville,
the numbness of so many droning miles
too numerous to count with your wind-drifted hands
until much later, when you have a moment to reminisce.
You declare, with certainty,
that you cannot write a love poem.
But there is a breathlessness
that comes whenever I seek your pages,
a recognition that hearts will swell
beyond their mortal boundaries
right there, between the tender thrumming
of your untamed words.
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