The Sun rises and sets. It is October
again somehow and my fingertips are cold
in the early morning. Squirrels begin to build
a nest of acorns, the air is an orange and somber
color. I can remember the glorious clamor
of dozens of birds talking, the sensual folds
of her clothing and how she gasped in a wild
abandon when I touched her. The green, sober
vines were quiet, the oak was a tall obelisk
that pierced the sky without ration nor reason
and apprehended nothing. In the soft dusk
her skin was bare, there was no comparison
to her beauty. Yet, always I'm upon the task
of giving her a literal description.
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