Somewhere in your meadow

Somewhere in your meadow,
wet hand caress,
the winds blow them dry as the sun expands
open sky.
A mindful embrace, you and I.
To where has the question gone?
Has the clock not been saying the truth? And have we gone mad?
You, question, never did like to walk around that much.
Conversations only lasted long enough to hitch a ride on passing desires, for in the distance; where the old tractor once proudly stood.
A scent of nostalgia bleeds your wounds, shadows blowing in from the east, and you never did like Dr.Seuss books that much...
The old smell of wet cardboard- dragging lazily throughout the house still carries memories of making countless forts.
I only hear guitar strums noawdays.
Singing, coming from somewhere,
somewhere, in your meadow.