The sun shines brightly on

the long tendrils of your hair

tossed heedlessly into the wind,

mirroring the milkweed seeds-

free to roam,

no longer tethered into place.


The oak leaves

vibrant green, yellow,

now faded sepia, curled tightly

into themselves.




They splinter underfoot

as we walk mindfully

just-far-enough apart-

arching trees pruned back

over country roads,

so a strip of blue sky

always shows through

the yearning branches.


The clear, pure light traces

the gentle slope of your cheek

as it turns aside,

ducking my ponderment,

hiding eyes

from my view.


The road’s gentle curve,

visible far in the distance,

slips below the horizon

moving on

soon out of sight.

So talk to me, baby ...

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