O eggshell dress dancing with breeze rhythmic through breast but a cut above knees
pluck-ed ripe bush blossoms amongst loom with nought of a push steps soft as a tomb
buckwheat born skin or of harvest at dawn speaking bathwater gin and horseshoes on lawn
the crease of a peach in lips that are purse and freckles from beach scatter sand upon earth.
Such a day to sit among redwoods with trumpeter vine jewelry and fireplace eyes whispering kindling between tuna and marble; such songs flap of mockings, that of garment and young:
I think I will stop on the way home to watch them sheer the sheep in the fields.