Slieve Bloom

And with every gust of
heavy Irish wind I am
washed of the black,
miry bitterness that sat
in the corners of my
heart. Your name no
longer evokes the
stinging pain and the
aching dullness, but
rather the longing of
an eager heart, of a
forgetful heart. My lips
whisper prayers as soon
as you slip into my mind,
and I pick the petals of
poppies, letting each one
fly like the past seven
weeks. I am overwhelmed
by my earnest heart's
desire, to see you become
so totally wonderful
and strong, and I only
pray now for the true
privilege of being able
to witness it.

I drag my hands through the fields,
keeping them wide open.

Forget Me Not

We were delicate and blue
in the ground only weeks,
aspiring and full of life,
beauty beaming from our
bright eyes, hope in the
middle of our chests, and
love on the tips of our
tongues. The wind sang us
to sleep every evening,
the sun fed us its glory
with every passing hour,
and we belonged to the
earth, together and strong
we stood. But when the
rain came you forgot to
dance, and when the thunder
crashed  you ran instead,
and even now my whole
being aches for my
closest friend, my most
loyal and true love, and
I wonder where you are
and what you see, what
you dream, and though
it's still raining, I have hope
for sunnier days. Days where
you will come back, brave
and unaffected, standing
with me again. My dear,
please don't forget.