by Susan Reilly
Under each stone that you've laid, the earth is turning. Weeds grow, all forlorn in the empty lot. Night comes down, and I close my eyes and listen to night's longing. It is dusk in the woods behind the run-down shop. Crickets are ringing their bells.
Under each stone that you've laid, the earth is turning. Weeds grow, all forlorn in the empty lot. Night comes down, and I close my eyes and listen to night's longing. It is dusk in the woods behind the run-down shop. Crickets are ringing their bells.