for Lane when he was born
gorgeous dark boy,
black hair & bittersweet chocolate eyes,
gifted with the shimmering magic rhythms of dreams,
his mother is my sisterfriend.
she worships his tiny sleeping image
so do I
swimming in the wind
flying in the sun
behind the sky of liquid time, he is a man
could he recall?
you must tell him
how easy it was to love him
in those soaring shining sacred moments.
All writing contained in this website © 1998-2005 by Betty A. Parker