It is love, and it is played like a cello in the fall air
Sung like a choir at the very top of a sacred spire
And felt, in my heart; in my arms
Not in having, but in the lack of longing
Not thinking on faraway places my feet could walk.
It is not the familiar tempest of thrill
The storm that carried us out to sea one day
To ride the waves of passion and fire
But in a calm, still glance
Lights dotting a safe habor
And in your welcoming voice
And a soft place called home.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please be kind, as you'd like others to be to you :)