I see the open door, come two, come four, the dry dirt holds its tender cover
where leaves all color and blushful
dot the floor.
Thatched with muscle from the pine, I pull the plug on holding back
and cuddle up within me,
a tree so high
my sky is colored green,
and under me a bed too soft to lay my head is for dancing instead.
(Dare I ignite the muffled laughter
of the critters all scurry run beneath me?
After all, I’m standing on their pine needle rafters.)
One after another day, (should I weep?)
as the fabric not tatted falls around my feet?
No downpour from this leak can awaken youth;
yet, I see another truth.
Ardor in blood is born
and I am torn; each piece must consider how the wind sweeps the needle’s path onto a canvas without brush or paint, knowing that nothing lasts....or does it?
Something wild and wet in loving
can be made fertile again by mulching;
to faint upon a ground so considerate merits knowing who held the wand
that wonder made it
and also tracked the lines across my face and with one finger traced the fragile lace.