I’ve been looking for a love
that feels like old records, tobacco,
farmland, wind, horses,
oil and grease, rusty trucks, chickens.
Pulling water from the well,
braids in my hair.
I am a strong woman,
thick-skinned,
but soft and watery.
I dream of skin on skin,
lips moving passionately
in an old hay barn.
I dream of a wild place
with children running freely
as I plant the seeds of spring.
I feel fertility linger in my body,
this woman longing for wild,
farmland, safety, comfort, home.
Meadow child, blue ridge mountain,
guitars and campfires, knitting socks,
wood stoves, tea, smiles miles wide,
earth on my hands,
soil in my toes.
Warming hands on the radiator of the truck,
snowbanks forming,
and then the long-awaited
summer breeze sweeping through the valley,
washing over my skin,
caressing me.
I want my man.
I’m so tired of these games.
I let go,
I let go,
I let go.
I need a courageous man.
I’m tired of making myself small
to fit into boxes.
I was born to spread out across landscapes.
I need to stretch for eons,
arms open wide.
I am hungry
for feeling,
for realness,
for aliveness
to breathe itself
from my body.
I am tired
of trudging through the promised lands
of barren emptiness.
I am tired
of fitting into containers
too small to hold me.
I am a too-much woman
with grand dreams
and fiery ambition.
Silence is also a language.
I have spent too long pretending,
trying, wanting
to be seen and understood.
If my magic is lost on you then you are not the right one for me.
I am worth more than this.
I am powerful and capable and I am patient.
But I will not waste this precious life
waiting in vain.
Slow and steady,
gentle and warm —where is he?
Those hands I dream of,
that heart that wraps me in a hug,
the winds blowing —where is he?
He’s not here yet.
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 6:25 PM UTC
I’ve been looking for a love
that feels like old records, tobacco,
farmland, wind, horses,
oil and grease, rusty trucks, chickens.
Pulling water from the well,
braids in my hair.
I am a strong woman,
thick-skinned,
but soft and watery.
I dream of skin on skin,
lips moving passionately
in an old hay barn.
I dream of a wild place
with children running freely
as I plant the seeds of spring.
I feel fertility linger in my body,
this woman longing for wild,
farmland, safety, comfort, home.
Meadow child, blue ridge mountain,
guitars and campfires, knitting socks,
wood stoves, tea, smiles miles wide,
earth on my hands,
soil in my toes.
Warming hands on the radiator of the truck,
snowbanks forming,
and then the long-awaited
summer breeze sweeping through the valley,
washing over my skin,
caressing me.
I want my man.
I’m so tired of these games.
I let go,
I let go,
I let go.
I need a courageous man.
I’m tired of making myself small
to fit into boxes.
I was born to spread out across landscapes.
I need to stretch for eons,
arms open wide.
I am hungry
for feeling,
for realness,
for aliveness
to breathe itself
from my body.
I am tired
of trudging through the promised lands
of barren emptiness.
I am tired
of fitting into containers
too small to hold me.
I am a too-much woman
with grand dreams
and fiery ambition.
Silence is also a language.
I have spent too long pretending,
trying, wanting
to be seen and understood.
If my magic is lost on you then you are not the right one for me.
I am worth more than this.
I am powerful and capable and I am patient.
But I will not waste this precious life
waiting in vain.
Slow and steady,
gentle and warm —where is he?
Those hands I dream of,
that heart that wraps me in a hug,
the winds blowing —where is he?
He’s not here yet.
