from pages torn
a story telling
of times before I cannot say
the journey through
or where I found you
somewhere lost along the way

of fields and flowers
dirt poor mornings –
with honeysuckle pillows there
I knew you
in the sweetest way –
by moments scattered
everywhere

of promise shared
and others buried –
to make a fire of bodies worn
by something more than everafter –
seasons cleft
another born

into a place
of resurrection –
names the least of all we knew
how it was
the soul remembered
the road I took
in finding you

. . .