Belladonna

Autumn finds her in a cornfield,

smiling ear to ear, laughter ringing clearer than the sky.

We get just as lost in conversation as we do in the maize maze.

Always trying to hide that heart on her sleeve,

I can read it like a pop-up book.

 

Winter finds her in a coffee shop,

penning poetry or prose, she owns journals full of it.

The snow’s Siren song pulls her eyes from the page,

but she chooses not to brave those porcelain climes.

Not just yet.

 

Spring finds her up in a tree.

Reading on the grass is far too mundane.

Hell-raising Hellion, her energy is infectious.

Harrying helter-skelter until a flash of colour catches her eye.

It’s a flower. She stops to pick it.

 

Summer finds her on the beach,

the bleeding sunset stains the sand.

Humid and heavy, the air makes a chore of speaking,

the shared silence saying what words cannot in this moment.

These are the lazy days she lives for.