The light finds me before 

I speak.

It rests the way the afternoon sun does,

unhurried,

knows I will not move.

I stand where the land opens—

hills easing into the distance,

air carrying the warmth of long hours,

a breeze passing through.

I opened myself

candid as a book,

left shuffled by the wind,

inviting.

I am golden in the sun—

The way tall grass turns color

after weeks beside the river,

the wheat leans

until it is ripe.

I opened

to the warmth of the heat

until it changed me.