The earth wind was blown to us,
the red of the dying sun,
entwined the leaves of the dark dwarf palms,
and red of the sunset sky.
The wild wind’s thoughts that were blown to us,
the grief of the dying heart,
entwined beneath the dark hand’s palms,
and tears of the sunset eye.
There’s a path that leads to grass and greens,
we’ll walk that way and step on stepping stones,
and walk, perhaps, through a pool of mud,
and feel the soft earth smiling on our feet.
We’ll watch the sun go down behind the clouds,
and watch the birds fly to each other’s nest,
and when we have nothing else to do, we’ll sit down,
and feel the breeze blow through the evening sky.
There is a house with windows to the west,
we’ll stay there while the sunset meets the sea,
and sit on a shade of a dopey moon,
and wait till the dusk puts shade our much sunlight-bathed eyes.
(I wrote this thinking of having my dream of living in an island with you. The dream remains, though now without you.)