When I was young
I married a farmer
and was brought to the
middle of nowhere
to live on his farm,
in his kingdom.
The land was beautiful,
always gold and green
and blue.
It loved me then
and at night
or early in the morn,
it spoke to me--
The trees with their creaking spoke
with a wisdom of centuries,
The flowers spoke as they bloomed,
with voices like honey.
The breeze liked to flirt,
and tickle me until I
blushed.
And my young husband often
joined me,
and he said he heard the land too.
He said to spoke and sang
because it loved me
as much as he did.

That was long ago--
I am old now,
and he is withdrawn
and quiet.
The land doesn't speak anymore,
even when I listen
with all my might.
I wonder why
it's turned its face from me.
Is it simply the crime of
becoming old?
I have tried often
in the silence
to regain what I once had.
But it is no use.
The magic is gone.