Warm Fields

I cannot enjoy my Life –
when, each morning,
I am greeted
with a small discourtesy.

I can See by the thin light
of your promise –
(kin to the mountain Sun
that shines bright
but, Cold) -
yet cannot live.

Modern convention tells me –
I must avert my face, demurely
swallow my discontent.

But, I yet remember the Warm fields,
where the honey bees drowse,
the sun hammers
the tension from your muscles –

dandelions cast their seeds
over rolling green meadows,
over hills,
their brows heavy with bells,
on the wind.

I will not find my way,
to those distant fields
by following the trail of my own sighs.

I blow softly on the seeds.
I swallow the wind.

Not my best work . . . but it gives you peeps something to read!