22 January 2017

There is a fountain, hidden somewhere small

Where the wind is only for your hair

and other things are

not at all

In here, down there

Where your eyes need not look to find

A yellow rose on sunlit streets of 

Stone, a worried, whethered lonesome

gray, that fades 

Or whether it doesn't go away, 

I cannot say

I sigh then, you know for I am here

So far from dreams that lead me down 

Out of the cold, the dim, the rain

And dear, 

How I would love to take you there

Some day