Colorless clouds, have kissed a May landscape;
I was envious of their intimate touch.
The ground responded green
and intensified against a grayscale.
My own core still imprisoned in miles
left behind with faces and postures.
Shades of heron skim the past,
halo and drag their cane-leg hues,
and cavern in empty intentions.
Blossoms still prepare
a way for the sure fruit.
with sweet juice,
will find joy on a chin.
The pouted June strawberries
won’t pause for the solstice;
there will be musty
melon in the morning.
Tiny raspberry hairs on your hands
and plum furrows sloping
around your mouth
impatient seeds quiver
in the heart.