Driftwood I Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

The wind whispers, and the words are rain.
The moon is brushing her silver hair;
and I am cleaved by the joy and pain

that shape my world, my spirit, my air.
I am a gypsy, a mystery,
the moon is brushing her silver hair;

and all the things that are meant to be
will ever be as they will or do.
I am a gypsy, a mystery,

a breath that dissolves into the blue;
and dreams will drift and be on their way,
will ever be as they will or do

until shadows stain and sorrows sway
until sweet promises fade for good,
and dreams will drift and be on their way

forever floating like drift to wood.
The wind whispers, and the words are rain
until sweet promises fade for good
and I am cleaved by the joy and pain.