there’s an field
beyond our seeking –
a place where we belong
the life we dreamed
no less
for living
another one

there’s a want
beyond the waking –
of winter wheat
and purple sword
where longing flows
the sweetest honey –
yet not
with words

there’s a silence
to all that matters
lest we grieve
for signs we missed
a truth we cannot speak of –
a promise
or a kiss

there’s a moment
I’ve heard tell –
blinding sunlight
of time displaced –
where love begins again
as always
from a memory
retraced

. . .