We lay in it. A king?
A queen? The daffodils,
a side table. Etching white lines
on your dark skin. Cashmere.
Clouds are pillows. Moss is fabric softener.
I am tumbling out of my - drawers
are thick blades of grass.
You think trees are equations.
Masterful and wise. I think they are god,
pure and solved. When I was born,
they planted me firmly. You plant a kiss,
the wind brushes, my cheeks are red -
You smell like apple crisp.

I'll always remember summer,
from the comfort of my winter solstice.