under the shade of young oaks;
and wash out her apple cheeks.
The sparrows circle and dive,
and the grass hatefully obeys new weight.
The bees drag over each stroke of
black and beg her not to move,
but the hummingbirds soon shake their
heads at the bee’s effort and turn away.
but immune, she delicately yawns.
The slight breath shakes the ground,
the canopy tree bends and petals fall
like wet snow drops melting into her
She looks up with doe eyes
and a young, crooked tree sways
“Woman” he beckons, “to exist, to conjure up my
The very fates reside in your
and though they’d probably
just right, you’d at least
You are not a miracle, but more.
That you exist is poetry,
every bow and turn is lyrical.
Who could not devote to you now as the
light kisses the shadow and the earth, the heavens
She reaches up with another soft exhale
blowing out crystaline water that swallows
the spiteful grass and the moon pushes away the sun
before her seas eat up it’s light
and the air becomes so frightened
it flees for a single second before her
inhale draws it all back in
heaven starts to crumble,
but still remains the tree.
“Yes, sweetness and sweetness still.”
He wrapped her up in his shining greens and whites,
and if he could kiss her with his viney hands he would.
She laughed and the tree pulled her in,
and their arms stretched to the porcelain sky
which cracked and fell down around them
and her breath became the wind that ran
through the shivering leaves
and nothing waited behind.
The earth greedily sucked up the water
and the sun took all the sounds and tucked them
shifting back to the moon
for another kiss in their
and only the woman’s perfume lingered
just for a second longer before a passing sparrow