How she delights in dalliance
and in the grand malaise of
mid-summer mornings when
she abandons her bed and rises
from slumber in bright stillness
and then, with head set upon
her shoulder, gazes out her
window before donning vestments,
rearranging a vase of larkspur
and, in a drowsy flourish,
eases night’s hold over heaven
by extinguishing the stars and
tiny torches of lamplight, even
as she opals dew and leaves parts
of herself tucked within the
pockets of the tides and inside
the colder currents of woodland
waters, then expands ever more
luminous towards the far horizon
succumbing to the sun’s prolific
yellow, color floating up and out
of her body, birthing worlds of
sea-glass green; other times, closer
in, she’ll extend her bejeweled
fingers to warm the kettle’s
metal belly, glaze the houses’
closed windows and soften the
hard edges of the here and now.