The whispers of you aren’t carried on the wind.  Your face isn’t on the silent landscape.  Your scent isn’t on the drops of morning.  Where are you?

In the notes I play.  The spaces between the cadence.  The timbre of vibrating strings.  The touch of my fingertips.  Laced up, in the gifts God put in me.

You are wild, and screaming.  Sprouted between rocks, cracks. You are hushed, and still.
Outside.
In.