When there is,
in this soft heart,
a tear for sweet love departed,
a tender wave of grief upon the shore;
where do these small hands go?
How do I hold
and kiss
and whisper
each precious ache
into wholeness, once more?
There is an apricot sun in the distance.
There is a mighty perfection
twinkling in the eye.
And so it is,
the ache shall be
here
and I shall know her.
Until I have known her eternal home.
brooke-cutler.com 