I set my hands in the cold dirt

working, working from cloudy dawn till grey sundown handling the chilled earth

with empty aching breast and aching limbs.

Clouds hung on the distant cedar-spotted frosty hills

where I had played all Summer.

I bent again to the heavy empty work,

craving, laden with a wordless hungry longing.

Then as the sun lowered

and the quitting bell had rung,

strangely the clouds were pierced

and light broke forth.

Strangely our hands were clasped and intertwined.

The cup was filled.

Quietly you said it,

"God, that's pretty!

Look how the sun has colored up those clouds."

I remember now the words I found

shaping on my lips that night.

I remember your answer welling wordless to your lips, your shyness, your own longing articulated clear.

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