(posting under yesterday's date)

she sits on dewdrops and blades of
grass and the shadow of an oak tree;
the rays of sun catch in her hair
like a diamond

and you believe that flies are
broken violins still singing

they fall then,
the leaves, and pass through
a rainbow arc of green
only brush a runaway strand of
her auburn hair

it pierces your eyes now;
burning copper disc of sun

you wonder of skin wrinkled from
staring at jewels
instead of
trying to shine.

1 comment:

Holly said...

What an interesting last stanza!

And I love how you say she sits ON the shadow instead of in it.

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in the wake of light, your words bring me more(please, do leave your fingerprints behind, so I may relish the image of our hands after you go.)