Mystery

The sprout from a wind-whipped seedling.
Echoes off the side of green mountains
curl around river stones,
toss secrets to one day light on a field
of sparrow-brown cut grass
orbited by a hawk that flies
above you, whose red-tipped feather falls
to me with the smell of you in the garden
drinking a cup of pomegranate tea,
the secret circling: it is not only my heart.

Kyes Stevens