he sits,
sipping his tea
on a porch
before meadows
and mountains
familiar to his
voice and supplications,
under stars
and bright sun,
considering dreams,
some real
some reminders
of a good life
with songs
brightly sung
and poetry,
the puzzle
of words,
that some
plainly grasp,
but for a few,
the message
remains deep
between the lines,
speaking to those
who know his voice
Roger Singer 