your hair is honey wheat, i hide my poems
under your pillow until Spring.
cornflower blue and somehow, always a
sundress, everywhere, and somehow
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
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