Each dusk I light the little flame,
The one you loved when tempests sighed;
Its trembling heart still speaks your name,
And keep your shadow by my side.

The garden sleeps beneath the rain,
Yet every leaf recalls your song
The gate still whispers a soft refrain,
That you have only gone too long.

They tell me clouds are only mist,
That faith is but a dreamer’s art;
Yet somewhere past that silver drift,
You move, unseen… but near my heart.

Each day I write one page, one prayer
Though ink may fade and candles die;
Still words take wing through tender air,
And find their rest beyond the sky.

I tell you how the kettle hums,
How morning shivers on the pane
How sparrows wait where daylight comes,
Beside your chair, and call your name.

The neighbors smile and turn away,
And whisper age has blurred my sight
But when I close my eyes, you stay
A warmth within the folding night.

And if one eve, through hush and blue,
A chariot hums, soft wheels of gold,
I’ll bring all these letters to you,
Each tear-sealed page, each story told.

Till then, my child, the stars shall keep
The words I fold, the vows I write;
And Heaven’s breath shall cradle deep
The dreams I send to you each night.

.    .    .