Gracefully
the wind causes the willow leaves
to brush the ground, as gently
as I'd sometimes find my fingers
running themselves across your skin.

There is peace here,
as there has always been.
I'd like, when my years have expired,
to meet you here

ultimately, in shallow graves,
to let time and Miss Mother Nature,
the only god I know,
cover us in moss and wildflowers.

Our love grew from a seed,
so there is no reason not to plant it again.