theres a stream
at the edge of a lane
that runs from deep in the woods
along a back road in the country
where a pretty stone house
sits on a hill
and there\'s a big flat rock
where she sits with bare feet
dipping long silk stems
in the cool dark shallows
and the moonlight paints a foggy white glow
on porcelain shoulders
the only sound
the midnight symphony
of crickets crying their songs
and the soft swirling of water over smooth stones
where the years have taken their sweet time
to swallow any rough edges
the way she hopes
they might be so kind
as to steal more than just her youth
but leave behind a little beauty
and forgive her
for stealing more than hearts
and wishing more than dreams
and filling her cup
with sweet wine
or sometimes whisky
for the stinging nights
when sleep is just wishful thinking