If I ever come across your stricken face
awash with grief
I hope to be deafeaned
so as to not hear you scream

--God knows I may deserve the sight;
the sight but not the sound--

and I will hold you until the flowers
bloom (or wilt) beneath the rain,
whichever outcome the weather decides for us
I will hold you,
and diminish thoughts of pain
and thoughts of misery,
until your eyes shine once again
as brightly as the sun,
until the meadow is dry and warm
with the absence of defeat

I will hold you.