I have this little dream
Of us grey but far from old
beside a roaring fire
untouched by the cold
of our winter.
We smile and begin.
At ease, just listenin to the other
and to a rhythm plucked in 3 by 4s
by decrepit hands in perfect time
with soft, pale notes intently played
on the ebony piano in the corner.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Harmony
Labels:
Of Poetry
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