In hills, there is sand
In rivers, there are tides
.
In thought, there's prayer
In heart, there's hope
In blood, there are roads
In your blood, there are sun dappled trails
.
There are books of script
and songs from past
there are footprints on the moon
and crushed chips beside the pool
.
There is melancholy in memory
(where we set this easel)
.
There are teacups
and hugs
and cases of luggage
crammed in the closets
.
There are beams of greeting in evening meetings
There are wild cajoling voices
rejoicing
.
and there are moments, too
soft and true as milkweed
and morning dew
for remembrances
.
For taking in this twilight as it passes
for marking these hills with granite
for salting the earth with tears
and for embracing a lone
daffodil
.
In glass, there is lightning
In crying, there is home
.
In silence, there is pause
In caring, there is loss
In green, there is blue
as there are parents in you
.
2019
About the Creator
Justin Keeling
A systems thinker dedicated to the task of disillusioning and reconciling a fragmented world through art, design, music, and story.
I sing for the dryads who spring through city sidewalks.
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