poppies grew
one august –
flush against the barn
and someone said
they saw a man
asleep out on the lawn

were whispers
from the kitchen –
tho no one held the proof
of where the stories
started –
while searching
for the truth

a busted fence
and thirty head
of cattle – more or less
babies crying
 somewhere now –
 for longing unconfessed

separate beds
and darkened rooms
places kept apart –
ten thousand miles
and eighteen steps
worn between their hearts

how many sorrows
offered
as ransom for a kiss
touch reserved for evermore
was never meant
for this

a slight of girl
to question –
how to know
when love was real –
would wonder
just how long the wait
for broken hearts
to heal

…