Tonight I hear the quiet years
as they tiptoe past the clock.
Still, summer light lingers here between
fall’s melody and rhythm.
My hands gather mornings and friends
tuned to my life’s unfathomable keys.
The rosined bow of time draws slow over
my thoughts in a sigh, and you are here.
Our songs are entwined as swans
nesting on the weight of our days.
Vast is the music nearly below hearing—
loss has engraved its hammers here and there;
still, your sky tunes my mind
and hope plays upon my harp like water,
welcome and sweet.
J. Pratt-Walter, ☺2020
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