I think it is time for a cutting
I imagine the field, the one above everyone else
A lain long enough for me to rest, for you to stay
The hawk has taken back the air
Above new grass, and the dove now can not hide
Anymore. I can tell you now I will cross
That field, and here almost never will pass the blade,
Maybe sometimes fog - the night itself
to my thighs, my skirt pulled up that high.
You will came to what will be my house and stood outside.
Then I see you in. I will remind of you
Only in my restful hours, with your brown hair
And mine, so long then, be sure.
I confess my last house was the coldest
I kept. In it, I became formless as air, crossing
The walls, formless as your breath as it rose
From your mouth to disappear in the air above you.
You see, you opened again
My world; you are the sentence
To be spoken again and again - truer, perhaps
You are a foreign language I did not imagine
I already have been practicing in my soul for centuries.