Pretty Polly, please come on down. From your home home high up off the ground. In the tree dark and forlorn. Where the rope hangs bruised and worn. . Though I'll never fly to you.
This is it my dear old friend. Our paths it seems are at an end for now. Though in time we floated free. We're are pulled by separate gravities to ground.
I close my eyes and it all returns like the spinning of a potter's wheel. Trying to stay ahead a morning as time came running with us. And she beat us to the finish as we ran through the fields.
Pictures on my wall,. Fifteen different colours,. Starting with vermillion-. The first flower of the summer,. And don't think I'll be finished. Till I've begun to understand this,.