Ten years after you packed up
and moved away,
they say you've found the floor again,
your feet kicking up
in little white boots,
found your rhythm,
found your rhyme.
So long ago, yet your scent lingers
like incense from a burning candle,
your eyes once so adoring,
frost on a sultry summer night,
captured lies chased in circles
flame and flicker, then go dark.
I remember summer nights stoked
by a full moon and a fast car,
riding roughshod like unbridled ponies,
gazing at heavens where no horses run,
telling secrets breathlessly told,
unbound and flung loose to the wind.
We are our memories, dreamers
under tender moons pool in mirrors
of eternity, images escape
like ashes from a fire, until today
when I heard the music,
and I paused at the rim
of the last blue mountain,
at the edge of a deep blue world,
and wondered if the brightness
burning was a sunset or angel.
A man in the band said he remembered
a woman he once loved
without bitterness, saying in his movie,
it was a good thing,
and he accepts humbly
this glimmer in his wretchedness,
He began to play again and I thought
I saw the notes pulling someone
onto the floor, skirt flouncing
happily over the tops
of little white boots,
and at the song's end,
I tried to find her, but she was gone.
So many years after you packed up
and moved away,
they tell me you've found
the floor again,
your feet kicking up
in little white boots,
found your rhythm,
found your rhyme.
