Tuesday, November 23, 2010

The One Where The Blooms Peek Out From The Hem of My Wide Pants.

Dear Lover,

I have a feeling.
That when I look at you.
When I first realize.
That I'll smell fresh milk.
And blackberry jam.
And knee-tall grain.
The kind that lines paths.
Bowing over as if in worship of the packed width of a trail.
Waving this way and that.
To catch dragged fingertips across its stems.
Sliding from knuckle to nail.


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