The Vineyard
The vineyard breathes with a silence too deep,
rows of vines stretch into the dusk like faded hymns,
Saylour lingers among the clusters heavy with sweetness,
yet her heart listens for something more than the harvest,
the air trembling with a presence just beyond her reach.
She inhales, and there it is, the smoke of his cigar,
curling through the evening with a memory’s weight,
an unseen trail pulling her through the vines,
each step carrying both hope and despair in equal measure,
each pause met with nothing but the sigh of the earth.
Her dress catches on branches, her breath frays thin,
the scent of tobacco fades, then blooms again,
like a ghost that does not wish to be caught,
her hands fall against the cold bark of the vines,
her lips press shut to keep from calling his name.
She almost surrenders to the stillness that waits,
the vineyard closing around her with shadows of loss,
her body weary from chasing what she my never find,
until the quiet parts as if the night itself bends,
and he steps forward, flame still glowing at his side.
He gathers her into his arms without a word,
the smoke softening into the warmth of his chest,
her eyes close as though the world has ended here,
where the vines, the night, and the waiting have no hold,
and the only truth is that he has found her.