GOLD MIRRORS REFLECT THIS FIELD OF MINE
Lay Me Down in the Mine Field
I traverse this field, tall grass casting dappled yellow hues against my skin. Years ago, this expanse was riddled with mines, under my feet now lie men, women, and children, their silent slumber giving birth to the vibrant, slightly off-color hum that seeps into my very soul, enveloping me. You stand, over on the far side, a distance my eyes can bridge. This field, caressed by our shared steps, allows me to sense the weight of your presence beside me, despite the miles that separate us. I can see your eyes, typically green, but today they're different. They mirror the golds of the field around us, fluidly adapting to the shifting colors of the day. The light brush of your fingertips against my forearm shifts, exploring the tips of the brittle, arid, sensitively alive world in which we both find ourselves submerged.
I yearn to call you mine, not in the sense that my fingertips or my toothbrush are mine, but in the way this field is mine - and also yours, and anyone else's who chooses to claim it and nurture it. I could never assert that this field is exclusively mine, for we, and countless others, sprouted from it. I could never possess such a thing, yet I declare it mine - mine to attend to, mine to protect, mine to love. And should I ever lay mines in this shared field of ours, know that it was never wholly mine to begin with. In such an event, lay me down and ignite the mines, and bury me amidst the teeming life.
I traverse this field, tall grass casting dappled yellow hues against my skin. Years ago, this expanse was riddled with mines, under my feet now lie men, women, and children, their silent slumber giving birth to the vibrant, slightly off-color hum that seeps into my very soul, enveloping me. You stand, over on the far side, a distance my eyes can bridge. This field, caressed by our shared steps, allows me to sense the weight of your presence beside me, despite the miles that separate us. I can see your eyes, typically green, but today they're different. They mirror the golds of the field around us, fluidly adapting to the shifting colors of the day. The light brush of your fingertips against my forearm shifts, exploring the tips of the brittle, arid, sensitively alive world in which we both find ourselves submerged.
I yearn to call you mine, not in the sense that my fingertips or my toothbrush are mine, but in the way this field is mine - and also yours, and anyone else's who chooses to claim it and nurture it. I could never assert that this field is exclusively mine, for we, and countless others, sprouted from it. I could never possess such a thing, yet I declare it mine - mine to attend to, mine to protect, mine to love. And should I ever lay mines in this shared field of ours, know that it was never wholly mine to begin with. In such an event, lay me down and ignite the mines, and bury me amidst the teeming life.