the limes in the trees are downloading
and pallid anthuriums are stiff over their pallets
i scroll pine needles over her face
tickling her ears with the sharp staccato
of their ends. her leg swings through
the dead headed clout of trim below the bench
as her head rolls in my lap trying to escape.
she puts on the colors of the wind
and makes her voice into a convincing profile
of the mountain. inspired i reach down
to pause and put the part in my lips
against hers. touching together
her eyelashes, she ignores a vibrating  
under our hands for my nose on her cheek,
until a pine cone, a message,
plunges from the tree,
planting itself beside us in the bench.
when i shook she didn’t pitch, but answered.
what was it?