After two years the hungry ones knew you were making assumptions.
They came closer and closer, listening for my dreams each night.
They knew about flowers waiting for the wind, insects, hummingbirds, some passerby’s sleeve. The need to touch the earth.
They began their approach, with lust in their hearts, looking to steal.
They understood what was at stake, but their misgivings had diminished.
So much time had passed, and the word had gotten out that you had stopped writing me.
Odilonvert 