For Tim Hardin

You don’t need a snapshot of every moment of your life.

The important ones last forever anyway, 

becoming a part of the fabric of who you are 

and it almost cheapens them to try to capture them.

Like a bird on a wire he returned this morning 

to set me free with his forgotten voice.

This carpenter troubadour knows that nobody loves you 

when you’re down and out 

and he just tripped in to be the exception to that rule 

and ease my needless sorrow.

He reminds me that the distance left to go 

in the lonely sand and foam
has meaning. 

He gives me a reason to believe and travel on.

He convinces me 

that he wrote the first love hymn for me 

and that everything good becomes more true. 

Quietly strumming his guitar, 

he gives me the shock of grace 

and makes me feel like a lady and yes,

yes,

I would have his baby.