Poem #136. Counting Sheep.

You always waited at the foot of the hill.
You waited on your fat little feet
At the corner of the gate.

We would meet
Where the gate would meet,
Under the king tree.

The pit was cool on our blistered feet.
Even the pebbles were soft.
When they opened those glass doors,

I would run, run, run down the hill
And join you from the opposite side.
You would squeeze your little arm through

And wave your little fingers,
Grin with missing teeth.
I was always the first to leave.

The doors would close on me.
They knew of my phobia of locks.
You were too young to understand.

You would always cry when I unlaced our fingers to depart.
You did not find your speech,
But your noises told me a lot about your heart.

Rush, rush back and sing,
Count sheep.
Hush, hush, little baby.

I will never forget the eyes you saved for me,
Like I was something holy.
Like the holes of the gate were the stairs to Heaven.

I once tried climbing it to get to you,
Since I was bigger than you.
But the guards cut, cut through.

Little did our little minds know that the soft pit would grow hot,
And the gate would be melted away.
The king tree stayed to weep and wait.

It waits for the girl who waits.
The other trees use the wind to count sheep,
To hush, hush like me.

Its brooding arms not only shaded us,
But banished all the gamers,
The runners, the players.

There was only the cool ground beneath our feet,
Me counting sheep,
And this precious little lady.

I hope you can forgive me.
Hush, king tree.
Hush, hush, little baby.

You and me,
We do not believe.
Yet again you find yourself too small for this impossible climb.

You can't even squeeze,
Wave,
Or grin through.

I am nothing too holy.
I am nothing too ordinary.
Whatever I am I only me.

I use the trees to sound like me.
I make it soft to help you sleep.
So you don't wake, wake, wake.

Just let me say to the old days,
To the absent days,
To today:

I love you.
I love you.
I love you.

I am finally the first to wait, wait, wait.