Anna gazed on perfect sky of blue and clouds that painted dreams. Gone was the rain, gone was the gray, returned was warmth and light; and of the spirit she returned in own to beckon of farm home; to quiet nights and equal dawns, serenity of place.
She felt the pang of heart-desire, of spirit and not of lust, though there was that too—mixed in the visions—lived with the one she loved.
He read her in her visions, distance of her spirit, and he drew her back with hold of hand, assuring, where she wished to be—he would go.
Unspoken, but said, she knew of his touch; affirming in hand’s hold.
In mind she dreamed how the trees had changed. Chartreuse dapple of the limbs in burst of first spring buds, deepened and darkened in leafed expand; flush of the early understory covered again under canopied shadow; light and open of wind through the bare made heavier in humid and hold of covered air; new scents, new sense—she wanted to live these.
She felt the pang of heart-desire, longing for a place; for life in the wild, cultivated as home, his make of it with her—and the dawns and the eves, nights and days, in home of only them—and those that from love came—they made and gave and soothed from pang further heart-desires.
