We will go over that hill right there,
the one yearning for the sky like the earth took a breath and held it for a million years.
Then down in the valley, just to the left,
we will find a little path,
a dry artery through the lonely trees,
and soon we will burst forth into a little meadow, a perfect circle.
If we squint a little we can see the ghosts
of pagans cavorting around an angry fire and
perhaps we will wish to be wild, free, and dangerous too.
We can sit, if you'd like,
or we can measure the meadow's circumference with careful steps,
we can find the very center and stand terribly close,
or we can each choose a side and negotiate a truce.
Perhaps I will take your hand.
Perhaps we will share a kiss.
But we will always feel that aching distance between us
that even perfect meadows cannot fill.