interlude in E major

Every time I touch the dirt, dust and dry under my sandals, it's music under my fingertips. I know, I know. You've gone on and on about grass and organic infestation... ripped each blade straight out of the ground one by one, I was told. And yet, I hear their ghosts intertwine between my fingers every time I push back up against the rock, every time I look at the frenzied glint in your eye, the beige rough-and-tumble of your hair defying the wind. The forest is a sequence of murmuring around us and all I can hear is your laughter. For someone so determined to defeat any organic lifeform crawling up your feet, you've never looked at me with anything less than life burning in your eyes. Maybe the day when the storm rolls over, we can grow something here. Sunflowers, maybe. Or daffodils. Imagine them crystal-cut against the sundried rock, or along the riverbank. I'll string up some lights and sing to you. I already can hear the melody. An interlude in E major for the woman who becomes alive even in the desert heat. I say all this to say the dirt under my fingers is a motif and your laughter is the call I respond to.