reap and sew

she had a way with fabrics
sewn a simple patch onto the
torn pants I was wearing, deep
indigo suede, about four inches
squared. Tacked with tan thread.
The littlest things burn more than
memories, when magic wears its'  
name unsaid.
 
I use to know the medicine of rocks;
their meditations on geometry, always
kept one or more in my pocket. When  
the pants failed, forever fallen,  I un  
stitched that patch that you put on me,  
and grabbed the crystal in my possession  
at that moment, a single citrine, yellow  
tinted quartz that never spoke directly to
me, but hummed subtle sooth continuous,  
as  it was my first of carried gems. It had  
naïve charm that was perfect to wrap up in  
the swatch you gifted, that meant more to me
than merriment.
 
I buried them both under the silver beech tree
that we burned sage at, cleansing the underbelly
of the moon. We made love under its branches, you
were my second, but first real breath I ever expelled.
 
There is no fairy domain where I planted that sprout
ten plus years ago, but no one, not even you, knows
about my private garden. It is in the soil of silence  
that my dreams still bloom. If you knew that I had done
this, then we could meet and dance embarrassment into  
ivy, but the ferns know as well as I, that if I were to  
speak aloud my secret, the spelling of intent would split  
along its' seams. I wish to see you there, and the only way
I know is to lullaby rock the wind to sleep, so the stillness
can confirm for you, that we never left the sweet sanctuary
of certain spaces