Does love
or what we call that
come from
a cold lonely place?
Our fear?

A bony arm
grasping
out of earth
for life?

It can't.

Make a hollow
in the hill
front it with dirt bricks
make a window
make a door
move in
bake bread

The smell of good
bread baking
will draw (perhaps) the
troubadour from
his troubled wanderings

under the new quilt
on a new bed

peace

joy


♥