I’m with her from moonrise to sunset, from lost to not yet found—listening, plotting, feeling every word and world that darkens the ink in her veins. When July reaches its lustiest, when leaves are green and birds gaudy, when she craves the cooling touch of water and dirt, I fill her head and hips with burning tales, and I wait… for her fingers to spell my wilds real. We sing much out of the heat, before the chill chants of change.
the lake reddish gold,
In her heart, summer-
crafted stories fade.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.