by Megan Hodges
The fields remember what we meant, not said:
your laugh between the rows, the dust, the hush.
Some love stays quiet long after it’s fled.
We named the stars, then crawled into the shed
and kissed behind the rake, so young, so rushed.
The fields remember what we meant, not said.
You brought me marigolds and fresh bread,
your hands still shaking from the morning crush.
Some love stays quiet long after it’s fled.
I wanted more than moonlight and your bed.
You offered both, but silence weighed too much.
The fields remember what we meant, not said.
You married him. I kept your texts unread.
The soil still smells like longing, loss, and musk.
Some love stays quiet long after it’s fled.
Now I walk past the barn with careful tread.
It’s still ours somehow, beneath the brush.
The fields remember what we meant, not said.
Some love stays quiet long after it’s fled.