In a Meadow

I see you in a sleep just waking to a place I once brought you in the dream that was that time walking in that meadow or rather dancing very small in the midst of the sea of grasses and frog-filled pools whilst your long hair conversed with the breeze through the red and the purple and the yellow buzz of flower-tops, singing. The grasses were my love, the flowers my vows. Do you remember twining Indian Paintbrush in the hair at your temple and lying down with your arms and legs outstretched, your toes and your fingers reaching, almost touching? This is a picture, frozen in a glow, melting forever in August, that was, that might have been, that always will be. Now you do not know it, but this is my heart, still alive, still beating, sprouting flowers in a meadow laced with pools fed by springs from the cradle of the earth, from the core of love, in a time that was, in a time that is still to come.