She stands with the leaves
gathered about her knees like piling waves
receding back to the rocky side of the driveway,
fingers tinted the same sacred blue as the sky.
Trees have bared themselves for her
and she stops her labor to watch
September’s cold flicker on their boughs,
palms open to the sky.
Spires tinged amethyst, reaching
for the puckered kiss which taunts
the picture of an impatient smile
black flies harrow.
I remember stepping off the porch
slim light trails in the rainbow mess of symbols
which sought to scream her precarious footfalls on fresh earth,
She and I, and the setting sun.