She came in a caravan today, her questions
veiled like her eyes and just as green,
like doves in a sycamore or terebinth tree.
Her voice is rain on his head
and in his ears, falling water
on his lips and in his eyes.
By day, the movement in the corners
of the field. By night she slides inside
and crawls across the floor,
She folds down the patchwork quilt
and lies there by his side, clothed in his shadow
till the sun peaks o’er the hill.
Be here. Stay here.
all rights reserved