Tuesday, September 6, 2016

your hair is honey wheat, i hide my poems
under your pillow until Spring. 
sheets 
cornflower blue and somehow, always a 
sundress, everywhere, and somehow
always cotton 
collecting like snowdrifts in the front yard.

tell me the story about your wheat-gray braid
and the tomatoes in the back garden, 
how you can never reach the top shelf, how 
that is what i am made for. 
tell me that i will always taste like 
apples, home will always be 
baking bread. 

your pillow
leaves feathers pierced through my shirt,
so i think about you all day, the scratch on my neck like
a far off goodmorning whisper.
the cotton blows through the yard.
i come home to your arms, you bake us 
bread.

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