We knew each other like a butterfly knows an ancient tree;
You were there all of my life.
But now those delicate wings of yellow sleep,
In the silence of an ocean deep,
And the leaves fall like tears down oak bark cheeks.
To be the mother of a song is to gift joy.
So, when notes and lyrics of strength and love and laughter and happy days fill our hearts and minds and the air we breathe;
The choir you eased into life,
Will sing your name.
Missives & Musings 