An acoustic guitar and a train track beat…
we’re chugging rugged countryside,
rounding bends,
wind streaming through open windows.
I think I’ll watch every dry yellow leaf flutter
and fall,
each flock of grass nod, swish and bow to the sun.
Sometimes grief’s a tar sticking in the lungs
and working to let it go means little
but waiting, waiting becomes the story,
waiting until it decides to let go of you.
The strum will fill your warm heart
as the clack-clack rhythm moves you through time–
be with what is,
it’s got its own magic, which you hold
and holds you,
growing in clarity, in beauty
somewhere on down the line.
Salt, Smoke, Water and Stone 