Things are rarely silent between us;
breath comes in quarter note rests
until measures’ fullness fills us,
the refrain at last repeated
by a lonesome violin:
“I love you, I love you,”
and the song begins again.
By Heidi Turner
Things are rarely silent between us;
breath comes in quarter note rests
until measures’ fullness fills us,
the refrain at last repeated
by a lonesome violin:
“I love you, I love you,”
and the song begins again.
By Heidi Turner