On the bank of a river
she’s never known
gnarled roots
call her home.

Reaching out
with twisted limb,
branches of trust
sing a hymn.

Perched upon
the cypress’ knee.
Within the silence,
He whispers a plea.

Running through
His metered veins,
a thousand lost stories,
a thousand beautiful refrains.

Grace Black, just another writer wearing down lead and running out of ink, one line at a time. Coffee refuels her when sleep has not been kind. Check out her blog at graceblackwrites.wordpress.com.