I wandered in where winds grew tame,
My boots half-mud, my throat all flame.
A village small, but sky so wide—
And there she was, with hands in rye.
She did not ask my name or song,
Just passed me tea, both steep and strong.
And though I came from lands unkept,
Her gaze was calm. The earth had slept.
She taught me how to grind the root,
To draw the balm from bark and fruit.
In her, the silence sang of rain—
A pulse beneath the orchard’s vein.
I tuned her father's fiddle bones,
Brought voice to what had once been stone.
She wept not once—just breathed and played,
And grew in light the dusk had made.
She grew the field. I grew the flame.
She called each beast, I carved each name.
Where she gave bread, I gave belief.
Where she gave balm, I offered grief.
And joy, and awe, and all between—
The dreams of places never seen.
She fed the belly. I fed the fire.
One kept the hearth. One climbed it higher.
“Stay,” she said, “and plant with me.
Let song take root beneath this tree.”
“Come,” I said, “and walk the wind.
Let fields be tales we never penned.”
But roots, like roads, cannot be one.
And dusk will bow to either sun.
She kissed my hand. I kissed her brow.
We loved in full. That was enough.
I go where roads forget their ends.
She stays where earth renews and mends.
Yet in the hush between two strings,
Her name is what my silence sings.
And in her fields, if wind is kind,
My stories echo through the rind.
Some loves don’t need a common ground—
They bloom where motion turns around.