The Golden

If I sit here.
In the golden
I sit here
Where the light falls slanted through
the paint chipping trellis
where it catches on the
petals of the buttercups
and pools in the yellow
centers of jasmine
bounces
off the spine of the bee who
hums almost silently
just now in the Golden
Summer.

If I sit here and
sip mint tea
green.
out of a glass cup that
whorls and dimples like
the mint leaves
seeping,
run my fingers down the
Paint chipping trellis
and the slats of the porch
painted to match if I
sit here and
Pull the roots of the buttercups
from the dirt and
weave them through the jasmine
Disturb the bee hovering
over their sweet scent,
pull their roots still
clinging to dirt and rocks through my curls.
If I sit here
in the Golden Summer
with golden flowers in my golden hair
If my eyes catch the sunlight and hold it there
Could I keep my toes in the edge of the summer?

The Minnow Dance

You can turn your body like
a school of minnows.

body glitter coats you and sheds
like scales
You are one writhing silver being.

You are naked and
tender
the wind burns you and you never knew
knew you could turn like that
and you like it.

Do you like it?
My hands on tender hips
scales rubbing onto my fingers
like body glitter
making me as sliver
We are one writhing silver being.

One school of minnows darting
under the surface
light flickers reflects
and for a moment
we are the sun.
But I can feel a thousand pluses
beating from my fingertips temples hips and I
know that the sun isn’t this alive
doesn’t
burn as hot as your breath on my
cheek.

We are minnows
one seething mass of silver flesh
a tornado school of fish
in flux.

Alpine

North.
We wear sweaters
fingers caught
in the hems of sheep’s hair
fingers caught in curls.

I am winter blonde
hidden
and just beginning to be beautiful.
You are summer brown and you
unfurled in full glory
a long time ago.

We travel North and into Alpine
swathes of snow over
dust dirt and
the empty arms of
trees reaching
Tangling their fingers
in the clouds so wispy
thin that they don’t snap the delicate…

You
and the North
good with a cup of tea
and never making miss summer
good under blankets
in front of a fire
fingers in the sheep hair
in the fleece and
coughing over
the pine smoke burning
faces warm with contained flame.

Winter White.

She wanted to be as warm.
the way the snow melts in rings
around it’s roots
and the ground is a little
less frozen.

She loved the solemn faces
grown into the bark
haggard lines and
sleepy eyelids
she like how none of them smiled.
How the moss
the only green in all
of this winter white
blank white
the ground and the sky and the water
white
how the moss clung to the only
other warmth how
water rolled down
those weather beaten faces
like sweat.

The effort in stillness.
Control.

How the moss drank it
spilled it
stained themselves a darker green
living green against
the blackening bark faces and the
white
ground sky water
white.

Vast and unbreathing
cold white
cloudy ice
rubber room white.

She wanted to
leave her footprints under the tree
she was here and living
with other living

but the ground was still
to frozen between
the roots and
however warm they
may be they
weren’t as warm as:
the cloudy ice sky
sun shining cold
and white.