I regard you with strong liking here,
on red-washed trails in the Autumn Shenandoah,
a dirt and leaf tapestry in heart colored crimson.
I wither as your lips push out
into the crisp, wet day.
Then dinner is ready, salmon and noodles,
and our socked feet amble along hard wood.
We laugh for silly songs, push forward
as a ripple on water,
and our eyes meander from table to hand to lips again.
That night, I finally expose you — your ardor so raw
I shake at it and wither again —
and watch your gasps push sweetly
as steam through a tea pot vent.
These are moments I want to run long.
I dream we are tall grass,
blown into entangled braids and my sleepy hand
touches the dark halo on your breast.
In this meadow we bend and weave
beneath a sky in revision from gray to blue.