It was in the wheat fields that he first saw her.
He was sitting all alone, chewing an apple, when she appeared.
She had eyes of diamonds. He stared. She smiled. The sun glared in his eyes.
He blinked. She was gone.

He wistfully gathered the sunlight and patched together wings of gold.
She was Sun Girl, angel of the heavens. And he would find her.

He believed in love at first sight. He was a reckless guy. He was a farmer, but a lazy one.
So he roamed the fields and looked for his future.
He found it.

The sun cracked open like a broken egg, its yolk spilling through the clouds.
He flew past it on his golden wings.
His skin burst into fire.

Big, dark clouds formed in the sky. He twirled in and out of puddles, searching.
She was an angel. So he built himself a ladder of raindrops.

Time wheedled its way past him. He grew old and it was hard for him to climb.
His soul bled; his wings had long been ashes, his ladder but tattered pleas.
Angels are eternally young.

The night bubbled and boiled, a thick broth; the sky a deep, black sea.
The stars were melting; floating globs of light now a sticky mess of wax.
And the angel was there, transcending the pitiful drowned moon.

She still had eyes of diamonds. He stared. She smiled.
And he smiled back.