At the end of the tunnel was a door.
I walked over to it.
I turned the handle.
I pulled; the door resisted but it opened.
All the colours of summer thrust in.
There were poppies, like bloody splashes, at my feet;
marigolds: each a dazzling, pulsing sun
beheld by the warm air.
Nettles pricked with purple tips.
Cornflowers spurted blue
amongst the grass.
Vines flowed through the door,
their liquid, limber tendrils
reaching for me
ripe with purple fruits
that burst under the gentlest press of my fingers.
Juices flowing, warm and sweet and sticky.
I licked my fingers clean
and watched the bees
dip from flower to flower
drunk on their heady pollens.
How could I know
from the darkness of my tunnel
such abundance as this?
I groaned with it,
it taunted all my senses;
I tumbled down
into the long grass,
the sensation of all that delicate contact,
tingling,
shivering,
torturing,
engorging
my nerve endings.
Fulfilled.
I close my eyes:
relinquish.