Walking the dirt path, down around
the gold brown hills that spill into the orchard
apples baked in the oven, sun of summer
and in September they are done
red, we dressed with honey cinnamon
the air was bliss, the trees, the ancient harvest
with baskets full, the way our hearts overflowed
this was a place we called heaven, but now you are in the trees
in the sweeping fields of turquoise seas, in the stars that never cease
here, where you once imagined and could only dream to remain as ever