The call

Oh, to be cradled by the heights;
swaddled by dusk,
and the nearness of the moon—
not now, but soon.

The stars to sing a lullaby,
the stream to spin a tale
of music that fills the space between the silence
and the violent beauty of emptiness.

Dinner from a tin can,
in the company of slugs,
and the lonely outline of a shepherd's hut—
not now, but once.

Oh, to lay my head down
on a pillow of grass;
to wake with the morning
and wipe dew from my eyes.

Oh, to lay my head down.

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