Pleasurefields

Quiet, auburn, oaken chest
Cherry tobaccan and nightworn--
The leaves are at their ripest
Wool-knit and fire-warmed
Brisk is somewhere near
But for now, just a hazy, ever-burning maze of red ash will flush us clear
In it
Within it
Waves pass through, but understanding that you’re there
And in a rush of airiness
Lightly hammered into shape
Frozen amber thawed and stewed in crusted September bake
And comes the sunshine
Honey haze
Maze of Eon in a day of days
A comfort in each air
Nothing rotten, not yet bare
In it
Within it
Waves pass through, but understanding that you’re there
There in that honeysuckle glow
You’d swear you saw it
You’d swear you’d known
Whether yellow-feathered cottontail
Or bluebird singing sigh
You’d touched the air with tongue
Taste of sun
Touch of sky