Honeyed Pasture sworn before a light of knife's edge white

They draw closer until finally scent can replace the work of sound, Poet slowing her steps as she senses their proximity. A laugh eases out of her as she returns "I might," feeling somewhat playful. Close, surely... her head appears between golden stalks abruptly in front of him (or more likely, somewhat to his side), just short of actually touching him. 

"There," she says, pulling the stalks in front of her out of the way and trapping them underneath her as she sits, "we've found each other." Poet offers a smile, raising an eyebrow in a quiet so now what?