Hold out your match:
there is a fire in my eyes,
a vision of your harrowed fields
burning in the summer sun with joy.
Last night you heard September rain
becoming what you thought was hail
and hid your face,
but as you mourned I looked
out upon your acres and saw seeds
drumming down in open earth.
I know you thought then I was sleeping
and think I’m dreaming now, but June
will come, and I’ll be here
kneeling in your fire of bliss and green.