From a field your character grows,
Memories on slender stems
Swaying in my breeze.
This winter is lonely
Hidden beyond your grasp
But as daylight dies I hear you
Softly calling on its voice.
If I fall between your ideas and mine
As if your stems have wept and broken,
Shrouding the sky like birds,
Would there be more than an echo?
The moon, bathes your field in a kissing scent
While I gather red leaves,
Holding one to a warm cheek.
This heart is real, its music lidded
With perpetual sunshine.
Our words dye as if they were said
Yet on your lips a silent song, an aching caress.
I open your palm, inside a bed of blossom
Toasting some long forgotten hymn.
All around I see flowers with hidden faces
Painting the air red with lust,
Their lips break the sky,
I whisper your name and fall.
(c) A Hannan