down in the meadow,
making a mess of my make up,
painting new pictures,
as we pose for photos,
that will one day reside on top of our fireplace.
I haven’t been aflame for a long time,
tired from the torment,
I am burrowed under the earth with you.
I am borrowing some of the light that shines from your soul,
so that I can see the patterns in the path that led me to you,
how they deviated,
but always landed in the same location.
down on her luck,
but a charm to me.
How the yellow of the sun reflects so beautifully on the bruises I spy,
every time your shorts slide a little too far up long, strong legs,
that your father once remarked would suit horse riding well.
You don’t ride horses.
You run, wayward,
waving through wheat and obnoxiously tall grass,
like a disgraced Prime Minister,
or an Austen heroine,
and then you collapse next to me,
kissing me instantly,
wordless and passionately,
and I hope that we stay,
a whole spring,
a whole summer,
through the rain and boredom that follows,
until the Earth begins to bubble again,
and new flowers are formed,
beneath our searing souls.