evening west

we have wildflowers in our hair

and a spirit moves across the lake-

rebuilding skin;

hunters in July.

i have returned,

i have returned,

but not so fast, my hearth in daytime.

fires settling under our feet.

sky descends, and we turn new,

and maybe i have not sinned,

and maybe i have yet to become new!

a found magnificence

i yearn for a life of white

pleasures: renaissance art, cliffs, the human form? i am guilty. sleepers, or sleep.

from far away, one may be convinced we have wings.

"no, nothing. i gaze at the sea."