Vistas

We laze together
on the crest of a hill that spies the entire world.
Against the trunk of a weathered oak,
casting our gazes outward,
you more south, 
to the flowing river that glints in the sunlight,
the rush too far away to be heard,
and I more west -- toward the setting sun.
Our hands are clasped,
and I feel like I've been sitting here a thousand years
and could happily sit another thousand with you.
The sun glows warm and bright,
and Zephyr blows us soft, sweet kisses
beneath the shady oak boughs.
Sprightly bugs tangle and flick through the dry underbrush,
like the fizz over champagne.
A grasshopper springs onto my arm...
and off again as quickly as he came.
Outside the oak's small dominion rise
fields of beige, wheaty grass,
lulled brown to sleep
by the sun's persistent lullaby.
They roll out in fuzzy waves,
crest just before the horizon and break and spread 
into infinity,
into blue oceans and white stucco houses 
and icy mountain peaks and glimmering city lights,
melting together in a flowing collage.
We don't talk,
sharing a tacit communion with each other and our senses 
-- a quiet melody of cozy, content, and complete.
I raise your hand to my lips and whisper you my heart,
but you've drifted into sleep.
The oak branches waver in the soft breeze,
sprinkling dappled and shifting light over my solitude.

Back where you came from