precipitating nostalgia

Rain pelts the old girl,
The tin roof and cold world
That once hailed home.
Late for a roam,
And my brother’s guitar.
We live wherever we are,
But home is a woodstove burning hot,
And songs belted out over a boiling pot
Of cheap, simmering stew
Climbing the stairs when we were through
Sleeping with freezing fingers and toes,
The only warmth anyone knows
Is whatever we can bring
Whatever we can love, or be, or sing.

About viewingcamelot

https://viewingcamelot.wordpress.com/ View all posts by viewingcamelot

Say Something

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: