Bring to me a field of endless rye
and place it in my hand.
Bring to me, too, the hand itself before
Bring to me the thick urgency of soil
spinning green into shoots of golden brown.
Bring to me the consistency
of late summer sun, steadfast as a stone,
never once receding from view.
Bring to me the cleanest line drawn
from one end of the horizon to the other,
the landscape behind your eye.
Bring to me the everyday miracle
of bread, to be hung upon the open air,
the warm kitchen light that holds it
like a newborn to the world.
Bring to me the mathematics of love,
the endless intricacies of its music,
and the silence both contain.
Bring to me the sacred geometry of ladders,
those patterns within patterns,
the endless steps without ascension.
Bring to me your castle made of doorways,
one entrance leading into another.
Bring to me your rooms without room.
Bring to me the exact intersection
where we, dear friend, may one day meet,
our words spinning gently as leaves,
our glances finally understood.
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