The Meeting Place... Poem by Eric Cockrell

shall we go to the meeting place,
down the path by the willow?
where the last birds go to rest,
and prepare for their journey.
where the sound of the creek
is all that's heard,
except for crickets and chattering squirrels.
the occasional cry of the butterfly expiring,
and the pines weeping for lost lovers.
following the trail of the ants,
and the pawprints of the wolves,
we lie beneath nests left empty.
naked and close, not speaking a word...
we wait on moonlight,
and poems written by the darkness!