Every expression, every syllable, every image you paint for me,
is a digital caress in an analog prison, a seductive glance, a subtle smile.
While I toil in the field, near this cottage by the sea, it is all just a delay
of what the heavens Intended I do.

But no man should receive riches were he has not toiled...
So I wait and I see how long I can go, before I put down my tools
and return to see you.

How long,
this longing?
How long this toiling,
How long? As long as I go.

We all serve the truth when we follow our hearts.
My heart tells me only to toil, and to love.

ABurns 2012