You are the dark 

the sweetest of summer

that lingers in leaves and lingers

and leaves.

You are the wings at dusk

that hold their gold, their pixie dust

and never land. 

I remember wealthy hair

and the song of cheap chimes

that called me as a child.

I walked softly then, not to lose

the music, walked with my throat

full of wind, stopped at the fence my father

built so the outside was safe.

No one could take us, bright-eyed strangers,

great neighbor dogs who moved like lions,

proud and territorial, sniffing for their cubs,

whose baby scent was still

on every other fencepost. Father saved us

from all this: the strangers and their dogs,

the slight iron singing they’re gone they’re gone. 

Driving at Dusk

A single pine tree contemplates

under the setting sun

a dusty field spread

out flat to dry

a yellow textured cloth

golden, she corrects from the back

seat of the car, as we zoom

past, not yellow

bare toes curl around

the dusty gas pedal

rooted to the machine, we leave

the colors, golden, she insists

golden then, a pine tree

rich in the dropped colors

forgotten by the sun

who fled in haste

to India, where the women try

sewing rainbows of yellows in

the grey dawn for the girls

to swish around

their hips and wear

the dusty cloth

dancing over

bare feet, like pine trees

dance at twilight

holding their thick skirts up

from the solid, slender trunk

the needles brushing their ankles

knobby and pale against the dirt

meanwhile sunshine presses

gold leaf around

the edge of an Indian sky

sings hello while forgetting

its half colored in pine

tree on the other side

of the earth

which is quickly losing its color

under a bleached white moon