Take Me Home

I still like this one. I wrote it for my dad.

Craftie Beaver

I swing my legs from the swaying dock
Forgotten every one of my dwindling flock

I lay in fields of golden, wet, honey wheat
Drink down dew from low, golden clouds I meet

I run in those hidden dark, green trees
Places I learned to be what I please

Ravines littered with softly-fallen sins
Redeemed by desire, baptized by might-have-beens

Hay dangles through cracks and creaky joists
I break pains and panes with the ghosts of your voice

Pains of the past
Panes of glass

I fly kites with the ribs of those rotting, white windows
Catch hope with faith and sinewy minnows

Display truth and let it cool on open-sashed sills
Smoke the winnows and billows of dogged wills

Clear to the rafters of this old barn
And to the ragged fence posts on Used-to-be Farm
I love you.

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