Sparrow wings and summer tales

Little Sparrow, light blue linen 
there you perch in my ribcage, trembling,
you flit among wild honeysuckle mornings
and brush my sleep-heavy eyelashes with dawn.

In this fabric of light blue linen,
I bury my face — smell sun-warm fields,
I hear the hush between wheat stalks
and your feathered heartbeat stitched in my collar.

Bloom, quietly 
like a shy hush of guitar strings in dusk light.
I stand barefoot in the garden of my past
where grief is compost, and hope is fragile,
but new leaves find my fingertips anyway.

I come Undone, thread by thread,
I let the wind carry the unraveling:
old goodbyes, missed chances,
a lover’s half-kept promise
drifting out like pollen.

So I Breathe Easy tonight:
I lean my head back, let Mree’s voice
paint moonlight on my closed eyelids 
every exhale tastes of pine needles
and river mist.

I find That Home
not in bricks or blood,
but in a soft hush where memory hums:
mother’s hum, father’s laugh,
the way ghosts kiss your cheek without fear.

I trace my thoughts like the frets of Carol Kaye,
my hands moving over warm wood 
silent, delicate, until music spills
like milk over a kitchen table
in a house too small to contain so much love.

Through Sketches of Summer,
I follow Roo Panes down sun-beaten lanes 
I gather freckles and bee hums,
save them in my pockets,
spend them on tomorrow’s worries.

Let me tell you A Summer Tale:
of barefoot confessions, of watermelons cracked open,
of lovers who taste of rain and salt,
of stolen hours under orchard branches,
where time loosens its grip and sighs.

Sip the memory of Strawberry Punch,
sweet with childish laughter 
sticky hands, juice on our cheeks,
fireflies caught in jars we forgot to open.

When dusk paints the fields in Alpenglow,
I think of you — your name folded into mountain silence,
your warmth tucked in pine shadows,
your absence heavier than a stone in my shoe.

Sit Down Beside Me, love 
Patrick Watson croons for us:
stay until the stars outnumber our regrets,
stay until our bones forgive our hearts.

If you must leave, then Stay in the corner
of my mind where the floor creaks and the kettle hums 
a place that smells of cedar,
where your ghost feeds the cats and kisses my knuckles.

I listen to the hush of Thymia,
an herbal dream that whispers,
you are a soft creature 
be soft, even for yourself.

In secret, I Grow 
roots in old hurts,
buds on new hopes.
Some days I bloom alone; some days
the sun finds me anyway.

I run through The Meadow,
barefoot in Marcus Warner’s breath 
I lie back, swallow clouds whole,
make peace with my reflection in the river.

I am Finally Home, Foxwood hums,
when I forgive myself 
when my own skin fits
and my heartbeat no longer begs for escape.

Under a California Open Back sky,
I hum Isakov’s secrets to the peach trees 
let the dusk take my sorrow gently,
like sea foam slipping through fingers.

At dawn, I wake in The Summer Isles,
a Roo Panes sunrise melting the frost in my ribs 
the gulls know my name,
the tide carries my sins away.

In the barn loft, I listen to the Silo Song,
dust motes dancing in Laura Veirs’ hush 
I fold hay into a pillow for my weary head,
dream of fields I’ve yet to walk.

Borrowdale remembers me:
Paul Alan Morris’ echo across the valley,
the lark’s cry over stone walls,
the moss wet with secrets
of all the children we once were.

I sip Dandelion Wine 
summer bottled in glass,
poured over bruised tongues 
it burns sweet, reminds me
how fleeting sweetness always is.

Past the Blue Mountain Pass,
I let Lady Moon lead my wandering feet 
stars drip honey into my ears,
old griefs lose their teeth.

I bend down, whisper to wild clover:
Kiss The Grass, hush the past 
The Paper Kites know:
sometimes love is softer than forgiveness.

By the creek, Driftwood Summer hums 
Alan Gogoll’s guitar a lullaby for my calloused heart:
float, drift, don’t worry who finds you,
don’t fear who lets you go.

I promise you Honesty:
bare feet on cold floor,
letters I never send,
secrets I hand you without asking for yours.

And for the ones we lost — Lost Birds,
Message To Bears reminds us:
their feathers are wind,
their songs fill the hollow branches,
they live every spring we dare to survive.

Here it is 
a single breath,
woven of every note,
every hush,
every heartbeat by Onnaya