Slick branches black, chronic
with lichen, stiff with old-winter
tenacity, but blurred, softened,
rumpled like silk sheets
the morning after, dimpled
with haphazard rain-fire.
We stand on the edge, stripped
of passion, drowning
in our own image, two world-weary
souls turned naked
to the cold sky.
I skip stones across our distorted
faces while you conjure
a laugh from some unknown place.
We close our eyes and clothe
each other in wild spring blossoms
and the sweet excess
of summer nights.
Laura Wright works with animals in the beautiful Catskill Mountains of upstate NY. She is a
nature and art lover and is happiest when she is doing something creative, including writing