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.