I've slept beneath growing centuries
In the room above the kitchen,
Where it smells like dried out flowers
And open paint tubes in the summer heat.
Ahead, this woman reaches to grab the world,
While the heavens trace out her coat
And the wall is skilled with some unknown artist,
Forgotten from the depths of a church in Italy.
My feet lie bare by the carpet, stained.
Green from running the hill,
Soaked from walking a wanderer's stream.
And pillows root my mind to the ground
In an empty daze of empty thoughts.
The ceiling is white from notes of music
And the air is thick with my heart.
I breathe in my love above the garden.