From kitchen view, they looked on the lawn—small piece of cultured wild; rise of the bluestem in fine, tall stems, pale and near of blue from leaves dark in green; open of the wildflowers bowed in absorb of morning dew, petals and open faces bowed as if contemplative morning prayer, sight rising when sun bore free the weight; garden in the back, rich with greens and plants beginning in vine fill and climb of baskets and lattice frames.
Beyond the cultivated wild, world closed in—houses, streets, park nearby where ones wandered free but never too far.
He looked to the cultivated wild and felt the spirit-pang again, a desire to go and roam. To go and roam, not all the world, but specific place within; and by his eyes, their stare and his silence with, she knew his mind afar and, too, where it was she believed he went.
“What is it?” she asked to him.
“It’s a beautiful day. What are we doing here?” he responded, stare breaking only after speak. “It’s a beautiful day and the pastures are heading…I’d like to lay you in the brome.” A smile broke and felt on his face the warmth of blush, neither embarrassed nor ashamed—just open. “I want to be with you in the wilds again, in piece of them that’s ours. I want to love you before bedroom window’s open—songs and scents and sense of wind in blow through frame; before the fire hearth on spread of waiting rug; to kiss you in stand and spin and light leanings and stronger pressings to walls and tables and heirloom rests; to hold you on the porch when the sun is setting down—to be with you in the yellow light shining on as dream; to light a fire and love you more, us both sleeping late and heavy through sunrise-after.
I want to walk with you in the open, to wander with you in trees…”
He laughed, its sound of a levity as shine in his eyes as if seeing and living all already.
Contained, dampened and returned within, he smiled on her—love and affection and easy pleasure in presence of beautiful morn—and spoke and asked again. “It’s a beautiful day…What are we doing here?”