Of breath caught quiet in my throat

to look upon fields of green and horses running,

and the handsome farmhouse well-fixed after burning,

there where wanderers wander by rows of lilacs

and your smells of baking and candles failing,

to life anewed a promise of life unending

is of the worm eating an apple yet to be picked,

or of boots headed to eternity marching,

of blue birds against blue skies my eyes calmly watching.