Sometimes, not often enough to count, but every so often, my mind wades in memories, causing ripples in the wake of my dreams. That shiver the timbre of my loneliness of voice. Gees and haws as I in driven feeling try to find direction echo from a preadolescent past as Grandad sits beside me on the faded wooden wagon seat weaning me from mother's milk with warm beer. I flash onward to Midway Island staring upward into wheeling swirling birds that somehow never touch. Then bank to sit at sunset sipping Andre White and watching my beloved stare at a group of white tail deer as they peer into our truck. Sometimes it's a wading woven to wrap me in contentment.
Copyright © Donald Meikle