How dreary this cold December night,
chilling me to the bone, that I find my way home.
I've been lost, wandering through the seasons
looking for the words, the words to bring us home.
We've both scattered like crisp Autumn leaves
blowing in the wind and loosing our way.
How delicate we've become as we age like fine wine,
and the calendar pages cease to turn in our silence.
After all this time, I find I pine for words, now invisible,
that used to fill these pages.
Come down from flight, dear bard of mine
and share a line or two.
The songs we sang so long ago still echo in my head,
like the melody of tapping rain drops.
For now these words will sit upon this page
in their unseen weary presence.
( c ) Deborah A Andreas 12/2016