They meet there, still they meet,
Where sand gives way beneath bare feet;
No words are said, no vows are sworn,
Just lips that know what silence mourns—
They meet there, still they meet.

The moon bends low to kiss the wheat,
The stars hang close, the air smells sweet;
He brushes leaves from tangled hair,
She laughs as if no one’s aware—
They meet there, still they meet.

And when the dawn begins to beat
Its golden drum on every street,
They part as strangers, soft and slow,
And only night will ever know—
They meet there, still they meet.

Ryan Stone