There was no singing tonight.
Not with a mind of shadows.
One full of thoughts not for after.
There was no remembrance of September.
Nor a recollection of December.
Hopefully the weeping is kept with the willows.
Glasses of parting were not mentioned.
The sun wasn't sinking west in a different dimension.
No more nightmares from the pillows.
Oh the wild flowers.
We often see no harm in them being ours.
Until after the fire and the pedal billows.
The gardener should know better.
Could it possibly be the weather?
Is there a message from the widows?
There was no singing tonight.
The moon wasn't listening
There were no words.
