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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=576669" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Heavens Over Lighthouses</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=576669" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Sounds of your memory—what does<br>It mean, all of those diseases: <br>Thinking and thinking of Colorado<br>Where my mother was born outside of Denver—<br>In just a little slip of a vale—<br>In a house next to a house built by a blind man—<br>Against all of those busied echoes up against <br>The canyons: <br>Maybe she was in love with her brother when she<br>Was in her youngest years: <br>But she graduated high school, got married<br>And had children—and her husband—her husband<br>Is my father: <br>Man from <br>Michigan—fat as a hummingbird over the used car<br>Ports and junk yards—while all of the time <br>Around his neck a beautiful sun weighing him down like <br>A jewel—<br>He was too busied to understand, <br>Or to truly be in love with her: my mother—my mother—<br>Windmills turn in the heavens—over lighthouses<br>And libraries—but what is there left to say?</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Bret+R.+Crabrooke">Bret R. Crabrooke</a></strong></div>

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