One day
you will tell
either your

babies

(your sons could have been strong men.)

or

perhaps
three
of your
favorite
drinking
buddies

about the girl
with blue eyes
and soul

who dries
bundles of berries
and presses
wild flowers
in tribute
to your memory.

You will tell them
about a girl
who walked
with you
naked at midnight
down a path
bent by

moon

and

cloud

and the scent
of warmed
pine trees.

You will tell them
(I know)
that
she,
this girl,
read more
into
you
with
one
glance

than any
person
who has ever
stared

inside
your skin.

In a moment
of quiet
nothing
as crickets
chirp
hauntingly
just outside
the treeline,
and shadows
roam the hills
in transparent unrest,

you will watch the stars
spell out my name

and (exhaling)
tell the night
about the woman
(with kind eyes),
who always
(with shaking finger),
traced poetry

along the freckles
of your back.

You will breathe regret
in those moments
(I know the patterns
of your breath all too well.)
and feel the wilt of my skin
crumble inside your hand.

Those who break
are often
left
broken.

And on those nights,
when you feel
the dampness
of my breath
settle
into the crease
behind your ear...

you will tell your babies
that soft women
are the
keepers
of sunlight

save one lost
woman,
who (broken)
learned
to guard
the moon.


(your sons will be strong men.)


Before you

I was
a deep
shade
of
rose.