I just want to hold your hand again
And feel the weathered creases,
And pick some mint leaves off the stem,
And sit in the path of mild, summer breezes.
With the green roof-top and the old nut tree,
You bake those apple pies,
And the content sigh, and the warm bed sheets,
That smell like lavender and rye.
With the hand-washed shirts hung on the line,
And the dark brown hand from collecting,
The little scruff, crossing on by,
You always soothe our worried fretting.
Your hair's tied up, in a loose, loose bun
The white fluff barely held,
And when it rains and storms, you still find the sun,
And shield us all from hell.
Sometimes, though, the good ones leave,
And the worst are held down by gravity,
For I think I know what your dear soul seeks,
And I know you'll find it calmly.
