Monday, August 20, 2007


Love notes seasonally
change color and fall
as they fell from
red lips and loosened
the gold locks of your hair.
I can hear the notes as they bloom,
sway in the breeze, paint our trees,
and float-
slowing time.
Mama don’t stop singing.

The guitar strings sing
lyrics that tune the room,
rock chairs,
and open the curtains
to let in the light
of the stars and moon.

Stories, histories, and myths
swim in rivers of rhythm
producing reflections of lives lived,
living, and lives to be born.
Stories are the pulse of
human existence.
Mama don’t stop singing.

The first time I heard you sing
a country song
it was about death.
I cried.
Songs end.
Our songs can never end.

Love notes grew
in the garden
on our bush of pink roses
that stuck me so many times
playing quarter notes into my life,
little drops of blood-
My own notes that made
me feel more alive.

The guitar is in the closet
waiting for the next line
to accompany the next love note,
change another season,
and give rhythm to this life.
Mama don’t stop singing.

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