Fifty-Three

At the crevice of the turn,
where the wild flowers in
yellows and whites dance
side to side as though no
one were watching, where
the tree line is hidden from
immediate view, and owls
retreat to during the longest
hours of the sun in summer,
where a laugh or even the
slightest giggle can get lost
for miles in any breeze – my
heart is beating fast against
your giggle and sigh, I have
re-found love on your terms,
gently rustic and everlasting.

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