:::wood dove:::

Obedient rows of tiny white cherries sail
in a violet sea; I can see the fabric of her
dress, but not her face.
Never her face.

The length of her hair changes, sometimes 
curly, sometimes straight or wavy, yet always
a gingerbread brown.

In the distance, almost within reach, she slumbers
deeply, waiting to be born.

Summer

Basil-laced strawberries swim in two quarts of water,
replacing yesterday’s battered, bloated limes with grace.
Tonight, they too, will be discarded like a pair of
sweaty socks, surrendering in defeat.

Skaters, daters, bikers, and hikers
weave freely in and out of one another, stuffing
the last of the capsizing light into their hungry souls,
before Hrímfaxi’s hoary mane hovers above the horizon.