From the Porch of an Old Plantation House

The white tips
of the high
green grass
bend in the breeze
of an
otherwise still day.

It's you
running past
and through
that bends the tops of the grass
in prayer
"God, please don't let her leave."
or
was that what I said
as you ran away through the field
after the clouds
you said
looked so free?

The skin around my elbows
itches
from
the tops of the high
green grass.
I chased after you,
but you never looked back.

I am reminisient
as I look out on the field
behind the run down farm house
we called Home.
The high
green grass
with its white tips
still shows your path
Out.
I'm tempted to once again follow,
your indentation
in the bent over grass,
but I need to start fixing up this place
so if ever you are to turn around.
I'll be waiting
with a plowed field
and bouquet of grass
to welcome you
to me,
at last.