Embrace on the Field
Drinking cider too tart
for my unsophisticated
tongue, I read her
words. Friend from far away
I had dared to imagine
I knew.
Her paintings ripe fruit
of women lined and
luscious, dripping scent
from the quiet pages,
filling suburbia’s blur with
whispers and tears.
I wondered if men who
fought the same war in
different arenas felt as I do.
She has been there,
as have I,
as many others in this war
women fight without ceasing,
undeclared, undecorated.
Yet her words, her pain and joy,
are piercing next to my
muted murmuring. Not that one
pain need ask for another’s
assent, not that one joy
outstrips a dissimilar bliss.
We hurt. We heal.
We repair those torn
who can be saved.
This woman, my friend,
my light into darkness,
has shown me her heart.
I know not what flower
of mine I can share.
I would grow a world’s garden
to let her know:
She is seen.
She is heard.
She is loved.
