The Imaginary River

Two years ago,

no it was twenty years ago,

you sang to me,

in your ragged bed.

A precious moment,

if you are blessed,

you might stumble,

into the light once in a lifetime.

I’ll tell you what God looks like,

just ask the Collector,

the Snow Man,

he sees what we do not.

Each and every snowflake,

the touch of your lips upon mine,

the morning sun in your window,

dancing on the wall as I caress your sweet face.