Rustic

freeverse

 

Long the days burning…
summer licks the skin golden,
hungers for that wet kiss of sea
that haunts in refrain,
it sings to the shore, of
white horses
that rush the altar in worship

sunflower moments, melt slowly…
we catch the drops
of ice-cream
that fall vanilla sultry
to our bare parchment,
chase the setting sun…
her fire falls…to meet our own

we walk in autumn poetry,
a lattice of flesh
and thought
spilling…
the pulsing wind runs
like fingers through hair
to tease…touch…
spiral henna like

we are the quickening;
our voices
cinnamon & cloves
to the dusking hours,
we taste the crisp scent
of nature's garment
in the biting air

our words drift as leaves…
rustic in their language,
sanguine in their swirling,
they burn
with eloquence
and fall at our feet