Mark unwinds by playing his mandolin. He's still learning how, but making progress. I like to listen to him play. I love it when someone I love does something they love.
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We do not birth our words,
instead we speak in tongues,
whisper, hint.
Innuendo and hope
somehow seem more solid.
I am not your compass,
you are not a map.
We are only seekers,
fellow pilgrims
on the road to Gilead.
We have left behind
both weapon and shield,
carry only our audacious children,
fat and brown, dreams
of cool water and shade.
instead we speak in tongues,
whisper, hint.
Innuendo and hope
somehow seem more solid.
I am not your compass,
you are not a map.
We are only seekers,
fellow pilgrims
on the road to Gilead.
We have left behind
both weapon and shield,
carry only our audacious children,
fat and brown, dreams
of cool water and shade.
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