I wrote the clouds down on scraps of paper,

The back of labels peeled from tin cans of green beans.

Off while you were busy writing your holy treatises.

I kneaded the bread that kept you fed.

Kept your laundry squared, and your beard lovingly trimmed

With a gentle eye for how it begins.

Maybe you didn’t notice how my back was bent

With this time well spent letting you fly above

And yet my dreams still ignite for this one thing I love.

I was always the dutiful daughter

Keeping the straight and narrow

But still singing like a sparrow

Out the back door humming

Running into the woods.

I’m glad for you.

I really am, but I wonder that it all worked out

This half baked plan.

Perhaps it takes tougher stuff.

To keep at it when the nights are rough.

This wasn’t meant to be a confessional.

I am never trying to be professional.

But I dream of fire.

I dream of you.

And I never tire of the same old view.

Again and again

Out the back door running.

Into the setting Sun.