My cheek will have the imprint
Of leaves that fell with the grace I look for
From trees that watched as the old
Creek carried all the water born of its spring.
--from "To Sleep on Stones"
We weave around chuckholes and snakes,
Skirt the mist of a waterfall,
Pass high cliffs that plummet to their rocky offspring.
I write these things in a jeweled leather journal
My sister titled "The Private Diaries
Of a Post-Menopausal Biker Babe."
Definitely a Harley thing.
I liquefy when you come near;
The molten lava that was my body
Flows along the planes of your bones
And into hollows.
--from "Like Honey"