I want and want and want.

My brain keeps wandering back to my ramshackle farmhouse dreams where I live with my man in a home surrounded by a wide expanse of green grass and blue sky and tall, old trees. We plant gardens and feed chickens and play all day and cook simple dinners and dance barefoot on wood floors and sit on the porch with a cold beer as the sun tucks itself down behind the trees. We tell stories and secrets--tall tales and fables. He sings me songs as I search out constellations that start to peek out of the inky sky. We wash dishes and steal forkfuls of apple pie out of the pan. We tuck each other in under warm blankets and listen to the quiet music of rain on roof and the other's breathing. We feel the pull of gravity and fingers interweave, then legs, and we fall together into the deep dark. We laugh through odd dreams. We laugh through blisters and cold nights and leftovers. We laugh and we love curiously, with a sense of wonder.


On another note, isn't it amazing how a heap of notes and chords, voices and instruments, and a pattern of beats can completely disarm you, break down all of your defenses and make you completely weak in the knees? The power of song will never cease to amaze me.