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

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