Your Song

By Ken Woodley

Your notes call to me through the sun-filled leaves.

They dance with me through the swirling clouds of sorrow.

I cup them to my ear to catch and remember

the way you sang them to me

deep in the wilderness of myself

when the silence felt like quicksand,

pulling me in

and under

toward the torn places

inside me

that feel like the farthest edge of the world

but where I always find you

in the moment of my most dire need,

driving dragons away

into a place where dragons breathe no fire

and I go dancing beneath the sun-filled leaves

through the swirling clouds of sorrow

that give your song

my voice.

And we sing.

And we sing.

And we sing

as others remember

how you sang to them

deep in the wilderness of themselves

when the silence felt like quicksand,

pulling them in

and under

toward the torn places

inside them

that feel like the farthest edge of the world

but where they always find you

in the moment of their most dire need,

driving dragons away

into a place where dragons breathe no fire

and they go dancing beneath the sun-filled leaves

through the swirling clouds of sorrow

that give your song

their voice.

And they sing.

And they sing.

And they sing.

And I hear your voice

in their song

echoing in my soul

as the silence bursts into supernova

And we sing.

And we sing.

And we sing.

All of us.

Every single one.

Together.

Even you.

Especially you.

By Ken Woodley

Your notes call to me through the sun-filled leaves.

They dance with me through the swirling clouds of sorrow.

I cup them to my ear to catch and remember

the way you sang them to me

deep in the wilderness of myself

when the silence felt like quicksand,

pulling me in

and under

toward the torn places

inside me

that feel like the farthest edge of the world

but where I always find you

in the moment of my most dire need,

driving dragons away

into a place where dragons breathe no fire

and I go dancing beneath the sun-filled leaves

through the swirling clouds of sorrow

that give your song

my voice.

And we sing.

And we sing.

And we sing

as others remember

how you sang to them

deep in the wilderness of themselves

when the silence felt like quicksand,

pulling them in

and under

toward the torn places

inside them

that feel like the farthest edge of the world

but where they always find you

in the moment of their most dire need,

driving dragons away

into a place where dragons breathe no fire

and they go dancing beneath the sun-filled leaves

through the swirling clouds of sorrow

that give your song

their voice.

And they sing.

And they sing.

And they sing.

And I hear your voice

in their song

echoing in my soul

as the silence bursts into supernova

And we sing.

And we sing.

And we sing.

All of us.

Every single one.

Together.

Even you.

Especially you.