Psalms She Sang

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.