strawberry field

floating in the field one morning

-- the fog was frightening, fickle, fantastical --

i smiled as he passed me once, twice, thrice...

perhaps it was a different person

strutting in the field one morning

-- the sun was searing, subtle, surreal –

he passed me again and i nodded my head

he didn’t even see

waltzing in the field one morning

-- the wind was wretched, wily, whimsical –

he wasn’t there that day

or maybe he was

crawling in the field one morning

-- the colours were choked, crazed, confused –

the fog and the sun and the wind and him

i reached out as he turned my way

collapsed in the field that morning

waiting, thinking, listening

his eyes were colourless, lifeless, and yet they

saw right through me

daring me to stay the same