Her skin is the color of the dry, cracked earth.
Her hair is the color of November rain clouds.
Her eyes water, as if from the wind,
but she smiles as if she knows something you don’t.
She starts to wake in the fiery days of August,
her morning breath browning the tips of leaves
and scattering seeds and caressing
Her hair is the color of November rain clouds.
Her eyes water, as if from the wind,
but she smiles as if she knows something you don’t.
She starts to wake in the fiery days of August,
her morning breath browning the tips of leaves
and scattering seeds and caressing
the dying cicada’s last song.
She brews her coffee
in the returning rains of fall
and hums along with crow caws
and goose honks and fire crackling.
She zips her leather jacket slick with frost
And her boots, gray with roadside sleet.
She rides out to round up the north wind
and drive it down forgotten cattle trails.
But most days she walks,
She brews her coffee
in the returning rains of fall
and hums along with crow caws
and goose honks and fire crackling.
She zips her leather jacket slick with frost
And her boots, gray with roadside sleet.
She rides out to round up the north wind
and drive it down forgotten cattle trails.
But most days she walks,
in this friendly land, she moseys,
tipping her hat at tree leaves too dry to turn red,
Nodding “Last call, boys.” to the grasses’ green.
Nodding “Last call, boys.” to the grasses’ green.
This is soooo beautiful. I see her!! I see her in all her dry, dusty glory. Those little brown oak leaves stuck in the tendrils of her hair, whipped by the wind. She is glorious.
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