Seasonal

Those hairs
are so fine.
Silk like baby bird feathers
and I can't help but
ruffle them.
Puff them
like a
chill.

Is it enough
to sit cross legged
cool,
socks to my shins,
watching leaves fall lazily
and think
savage thoughts
of long white thighs?

We [women]
look skyward,
see a face
and hope it's Grace.
If the face is a painting,
if the face is pained
or panting;
we are there.

My wings.
Unnoticed in the trees
below the faces,
and above the sweat
of sheets
unwashed
or words
unspoken.

Autumn,
and the need for
a thousand hands
stroking me
in sleep.
I am stockpiling.
Books,
And plants,

Poetry and
Honey
for the tea
I wish I drank.
More of.
She needs.
Warmth on these lips.
These hands.
These hips.