Cold in this soil,
and longing for your embrace.
Growing old,
as time takes whats left in state.
then
the trees
are brown
and we all sleep..

Heart filled with love,
despairing, descending day.
will they take
both hands will wrest away.
flesh,
and bone,
and time
will free us.

Exploding with leaves,
the wind is the painters brush.
Finding lines,
and filling the heart with love.
down,
the trunk,
the roots,
will feed.