when the winds blow rough this way, shaking the walls, whipping our hair into our eyes, this is when my quiet little gypsy soul comes to life.
it calls to the road, to the open air, to the swiftly flowing river:
quickly, it whispers in the few remaining leaves, quickly
the warm little hand folded in mine moves slowly, sleepily
where? it wonders, why?
where were our walls?
she will ask when she is grown.
these arms were your walls.
where were our lights?
the sky lit up before your eyes.
where were our fences? our locks? our doors?
the world was your home, my love, the creatures in it your family. we never needed to mark where they ended and we began.