Under the willow tree. We danced.

Under the willow tree. We danced..

Once we held love over everything. Love was holy and a joy. Was a blessing and a gift.

Now like sleeping flowers in the Winter. The feeble heart had forgotten the days of bliss and passion filled nights.

In a deadly silence, I pray to Lake St. Clair. A prayer for the sleeping flower to come alive again.

( We poets in our youth begin with gladness; but there of in the end despondency and madness. Wordsworth.)

Now bereft memories seek things lost in the lost and found.

Maybe love support to die?

You and me know treason too. Once we love words and the songs. We danced the midnight dance near the Willow tree and we delighted in the charm of love.

Tonight we learn. Love never died. Just simmered till the heart can find the profound place where love is everything.

You were my sacred fire and lasting place and I want us to find the hunger to love again.

Darling, dear love, honey and dear. Without you. I was truly alone.

You are my Beatrice and I am your Hemingway. Seeking a good ending, we hope we can find .

Coyote