The gypsy in her can’t keep still.
Hands keeping busy, stroking the hair of
those that like to fly the nest with her,
Feet itching to walk away, forget life as it is; run.
Stop for breath, touch the lives of a few lonely people, then soar.
It’s easy to set up camp when you’ve done it
a thousand times.
Who needs a bed when home is carried in
Walls don’t comfort her, restriction is not an
She keeps people in her pockets and
memories behind her eyes.
Green fields are her sanctuary, birdsong her
She lives by the moon, waves crashing and
The gypsy soul can’t be held for long.
She flees like the wind and remains a star
they love to watch but don’t remember.