Still

My love was but a notion;
his shadow was bare.
He arose from the sweetest hurt
as I saw him shining there.
His voice was merely silent,
so much I barely heard
the melody my heart could play
as he uttered no words.

Yet high atop a grassy hill
my mind did run so wild;
his verdant voice was everywhere
and to this dream I held:
that where he waits, I too shall go
over rough terrain, deliberate, slow.
Each step I’ll find and make with ease
as kindly at my back a breeze.
Though this life is arduous,
‘tis every cup unfilled,
I wait alone, no dream unturned
or lost to my love;
I hear him still.  

         .....