What’s past is prologue
Come home to me, nomad and we’ll dance like gypsies in the streets, drink Stella from chilled glasses, and trip the light fantastic. The world is standing still outside – one dog barks, another pines. A cat treads lightly on the tippy top of the fence. An old dog slumbers as her teeth are polished. The gulf winds whip the irises against the banks of the bayou where white caps have formed. Grass grows. Love waits.