The mountains have long stood and guarded the plains, while a thousand summer evenings have sighed and slept. They have seen children created and homesteads blown away by western winds that through the valleys have swept. They judge not but they keep their faces to the light and in the evening they tenderly cradle the stars. Young cattle grow restless in the heat of the night and flushed couples tumble out of crowded bars. I wonder about the secrets of yours that they hold as you lay down amid the debris of another day’s labour.
Here in the clamorous night my fingers upon your mouth the summer birds seek shores untouched by rain, silver and silent in their flight. And I can think of no greater joy beneath these wild oyster stars than to fall asleep in the cold grass and be licked awake by daylight.
It’s burning and it’s brittle, this strange and little thing of ours; Sometimes I see the wings of the sun, then the gaping mouths of the stars, And can I help it, if I can’t stop dreaming of you? I wish you would lay down beside me, in the weightless cradle of the night, and speak only to accent the silence that shivers between wrong and right, But the moment you arrive, you have long begun to depart; The earth hides his face while the moon bares her heart. I don’t want to hurt you. I never mean to cause
One would not, upon the stars, dream of placing a temporary condition of the heart; a means by which they could become fuller, more beautiful, more complete. Yet you, of stardust and stillness, made of the very same things, swill the air and the waves into chaos not knowing there is an eternal ocean beneath where all of your restlessness can have its moment and then pass, honoured but not believed. Be not afraid. Lay your tender heart open. All in nature is complete, and cannot be broken.