Skin Like October Sunrays

There and gone, but always missed

Image sourced from Adobe Stock; A wheat field at sunset.

The field of grass, waist-high, topped with soft, golden plumes like October sunrays, sashays along to a bouncy rhythm that no one can hear.

It is resilient. Mowed, burned, and even razed down to the root, reduced to a state that is less than anything can bear, and yet, the field looks no different.

Our hearts and bodies met there year after year, held aloft by the yellow waves, free from worry and persecution.

Until the time you didn’t return.

My words fail, but the grass consoles. I sink below the copper tides, pretending, hoping their touch is yours.