Walking a country road on a Sunday morning.

Look at the bobbing wild flowers not yet mowed down.

Only a few cars out, but I still watch my back.

Only a little farther to go to reach her door.

The sun is warm on my face, as I head east to the mountains.

The wind is cool, and the sky is bright, and I calm in slow speed.

I stop for a moment, watch clear Creek water flow over rusted trash.

Only a little farther to go to reach her door.

The weight of skin and bone on hard asphalt.

The sound of my breath and the squeak of my shoes.

The sound of bird song in the lush and thick trees.

Only a little farther to go to reach her door.

So many does wanting to see her beatific face.

So many nights dreaming of her crystaline voice.

So many hours of cursing all distance between us.

The morning came and I headed to her in the hills.

Only a little farther to go to reach her door.