birds fly and swoop
over fields now bare
and lying fallow.
each patch of harvest complete
holds promise.

i am a fallow field...
my heart resting
and full of possibilities.
my body longs for your touch
on each furrow,
each hopeful swell,
each painful beat of my heart.

you are the birds flying,
pressed to and fro by wind
and any stray distraction.
eventually, however,
if I am enough,
you will rest on my breast
and find everything you desire.