He couldn’t care less
About the sun,
And didn’t understand
Why my eyes
Kept straying
From the road
To watch water vapor
On fire–
Or about the
Golden hour,
Which turns the trees
To beacons
Pointing toward

No one warns.
But again
Decades melt
And you’re
Face to face
With a stranger.

And I could be wrong.
But I think your way
Is better.
And I beg you
Not to give it up.

Let your surprises
Remain here:
Lost butterflies and bees
In November,
A sky full of feathers
And hawks climbing
Spiral steps of air,
Red tails like suncatchers,
A silver line that says
There’s water in the marsh
Again —

How every moment
The sun claims
A new lover
To blanket with kisses.

Let what defines you
Be what you define.

About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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