a lemon flavored hymn

this is the song where you come home.

ballad of weary heads

sloping onto shoulders. mother

our book is no Bible

our love is no ceremony.

come spring we go to bed open.

your arms say love in sleep.

dark room of grief i am your child.

send me letters to burn.

i fear i did not plan for this:

loving you, or catching

the fruit you threw into my hands.

the stereo is soft tonight.

so this is our mountain.