*for brownin*
it is here
in these words conjured
through darjeeling steam
and the crispness of an April morning
that i realize
you are a song of honey and home
verses written
from your life
told in a voice composed of nag champa and gold
and i listened
greedy for more
as your song reached the temple of my heart
and compelled the cracks in the walls
to fill themselves
the tender music you are
sweeping its way in on laughter and orchid petals
yes
i believe you to be that song
that teaches wind to move
and has possibly become
the harmony my own music needed
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