Crossing Bare

Well, dear friends,
the captain's now a gardener
who watches carefully
the weeds of his words
and all the little whispers,
while the others do their work
without interference.

There's no more war [[here]],
just the [[joy]] of asking
the weather what [[will]] be best
to grow next season
as we sit for a while
in a winter afternoon,
wandering back to the old [[song]]
I sang you as we swam
our horses across the Mzintlava,
in [[love]] for a [[moment]]
and forever.

Traces

• Melodic seeds, symphonic trees