so don't go on holding your heart,
guarding it from hurt,
instead plant it in mine
and I promise it will grow
into a home for a tire swing and a wood-plank fort,
and in the summer, amongst its whispering leaves,
I'll hear the sweetest sound, the song of your voice
It will be there
after the sun sets
it will be there
when snow covers the ground
it will grow
and outlast these frail bones.
