New buds of spring, all
Green and quiver timid
Like the sensitive skin of her fingertips,
Young and soft.
Will he kiss the secret skin in the crook of her elbow?
Or will the
Lazy heat of summer’s lingering kiss
Trace a well-known, hidden path down her
Leaf-shadow throat?
Does the breeze, running long fingers through her hair
Enjoy it’s silty silk?
Or do the
Shiver leaves, so black against the sunset,
Make crepe paper shadows?
Flat against the bleed of color
Like a stencil in the mirror
Whose haughty brown and curving lips
Seem more warming, more polite
Than the wrinkled, crinkled features
Of the crone
Whose profile blocks the light.