She never told me why she ran.
Was it just some lust to search for the sweetest apple?
the darkest night? the most lonesome field?
I know she’s quick to forget,
but it was down by the orchard, near the sunlit bales . . .
. . . that look in her eye,
of all things wandering and of sleepless curiosity—
I was not for her, I was a farmer, and she,
with forests in her eyes,
ached and lusted for
something more, like
raging, summer storms.