In me.

This barrel rolls but the mount is great.
As the crow calls I think about my fate.
Orange flowers greet me at the gate
but my house is silent without an inmate.
Church bells slowly ring their tears and
I'm back here after all these years.
I plant a tree that will surely grow
higher than my dreams will ever go.
Songs of holy love stir and move the throut, and the rain surrounds me like a mote, as I enter the old house I used to know.
The wind ushers in through familiar cracks
as I look for shadows long gone, I unpack.
Then hammer new wood on the slamming gate out back.
Weeds of roses have made a fortress for me, and I prop them up against the sycamore tree.
The sun peeps through the echoed leaves
as the poet that lived here gloats on the breeze.
I light fresh flames in the old barbeque and stay there turning till I'm warmed right through.
The shadows fall as I wait for the cat but I don't expect he's still around though.
I guess its just me then and what's in me.