The Last of the Colors

I had remembered

the last of the colors

before I swam the distance

to place green ferns at her feet

I would find her fingers open

and folding in the rain

the clouds shuddered under

the weight of the words we shared

as the virus took to the air

her shape backlit in lamp oil

she was the night with its dusty wings

all paper and pastel

ink that couldn't be used

along the same pasture of waves

at dawn the sea watched blinking

with its undulating voice

as her leaves opened to sing

a sine wave of spruce forest falling

around a plaintive smile

the cinder of a dream cupped

in sooty palms

just as morning breaks

we don't know

what it's like to be so pure

this late in the day

to be hunted for our heart, to be

vaccinated in broad daylight

our fears have dragged out

all driftwood

bitter roots

picket fences

fickle solvents and

cracked lips that taste of fire

pieces of songs hang in the air

the pulse slows

in another time

she waits