When these fields of adolescent wheat
still green ape the waving ocean
I’d love to ache a little more.
It hurts to see such beauty.
It tears at the navel wound
that proves that long ago
there was a cord
that did much more than bind.
Now it’s tied
and (more troubling still)
healed.
Which means the pain of separation
has been pacified.
Which means something
wildly vital has died.
I’d love to ache a little more.