Songwriter’s Sky

Songstress come out into the open; piece together the scars.

  

Nature was my living room,

sky was my glass window,

she breathed in and out

with the cloudy wind.

The firs rustled a melody line—

spruce needles, my harmony bed,

the stream, my rhythmic water faucet.

The company tilted the mist

over the cedar trees

and they were cut down, sawed,

and turned into sheet music.

A man stood watch

over the valley;

his childhood was pieced

together in scars,

his only obedience to order was

to ride on without worldly goods

until the song—

“I am not without pain,

I am not afraid of pain,”

resounded over the falls.

“I’ve got your heart in my back pocket,” said sky.

Emily Isaacson