I want the beautiful life again, like it was before. I want it to be illustrated with fruit and woodcuts and poems fresh as wet paint.
I want to see the sky pull its blanket of clouds down over the cornfield’s ears. I want the river to sing to me again its summertime lullaby.
It will be like the time we plucked tiny grains of wheat and fumbled off the chaff with our fleshy fingers. We ate the kernels: the taste of newness baked in sun-gold, and you kissed me on the flat road. We swam home in the wet air, holding pinkies.