Against a bright sky
her blonde hair
floated careless.

It was California.

Even this late
in November the worst
she could say was
                 "Rain again?"

She loved it here.
Palm trees rose
high into the gray-blue air
and a salt fragrance
stayed in her nostrils.

I missed her laughter.

Brook Trout

A shimmer
a twitch
silver line
then gone.

Places Familiar

The surface of a leaf
or this blue silk scarf
is rough beside
your delicate skin.

My fingers love
to recognize
places familiar
to their touch.

Your cheek.
The hollow of your back.
That place behind
your breast and just
below the curve
of your arm
so sensitive and smooth.

Grey evening light
lay draped across
dampening fields.

Spanning their breadth
came domestic sounds
of someone caring for horses.

Your dark eyes were darker
shadowed beneath the broad
brim of a straw hat.

Your smile a thin light
in the cool of autumn.