I wander Indiana’s familiar cornfields,
Where combines thrum the rhythm of life,
Maple and oak, voiceless keepers of secrets,
Stand as solitary guardians in the fields,
As shade and rest, forgotten grave markers —
In this place, time flows differently.

And beyond these rolling, pastoral farms,
The Wabash limps quietly along,
A brown thread dividing a patchwork of fields,
So slowly you might mistake her for a pond,
Where willows dip fingers into her wistful belly,
And dragonflies dart between purple blooms —
Peace settles in like the final hush of cicadas.

I wish you were here with me again,
In these fields we took for granted in our youth,
And we could live forever in one ageless breath,
Our spirits blending with the sacred land,
Becoming part of the mystery that is this place —
Close your eyes and you can feel us changing.

From time to time, people will swear they see us,
From the corner of their eye, embracing as lovers do,
Airy figures lingering in the sunburst’s fading light,
And with heartfelt reverence, they will recount the legend,
Of two aging lovers who slipped gently away,
Into the tender honesty of twilight in Indiana —
Look hard, up to the thinning heavens, suddenly stars.