Winnowing Barn

It’s true:
I climbed to find you
in the winnowing barn.

I swear
I heard you clearly.
“Come with me.
You have to leave.”

My eyes—
you must have seen them,
but your face was a stone.

You never said this would be painless.
You never said you’d treat me kindly.
I want to know all of your reasons,
and just who you’re looking out for.

Oh well.
I could have kept on
and not sought after you,

gone home
to all the faces
I keep aching to see.

With time
I might forget them.
You won’t promise a thing.

The road’s neglected.
The air is acrid.
I would prefer
you keep your silence.
I live in fear
I’ll hear you whisper
“This is not
what I intended.”