Of All Things

Of Fields

I lay in her gentle embrace, listening intently to her words.
She is mute, but she speaks volumes to me.
She talks to me in the chirping of the birds, the rustling of the trees.
She whispers to me in the wind, and caresses me in the grass.

She is never the same, but she always knows me.
She calls out to me at my desk, tugging at my soul.
She is my mistress, and I her dutiful servant.
I oblige her when I can, but it is never enough for either of us.

I notice her changing, every week, every day, every hour.
Sometimes the grass is long, sometimes it is short.
Sometimes there are flowers, other times there are none.
Sometimes the rain has blessed her, and all is vibrant, but sometimes she is parched, and her colors dulled.

She still loves me so, however tired or thirsty she is.
And I love her, as she welcomes me like no other person.
She is beautiful to me, unlike all other things.
I hope she finds me pleasing too, as I sit with her, content.