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Pulling on pilled fleece
tucking citrus into knitted pockets
impatient at pouring bus stops
she’d rather be rolling rye
rather be sittin' by sputtering speakers
peeling pears as the hours go by
pulling plugs out of sockets
she throws things high to watch them drop
lavender glances and cedar smiles
the aroma of an obvious grin
she speaks in hues of blue and green
along the water she walks for miles
The soft sounds of early dawn
careless waves in auburn hair
reaching higher with each yawn
the scent of the dark is cinnamon
soft scratches and delicate dents
tight bindings lead to leaks
her slippery secrets drift away
the sea foams as we speak