This poem was written when Mark and I lived across states, before we were even engaged. These daydreams have actualized, except there are wild trees, rather than hills now, outside the window.
Most poems I've written lack a title.
(you wake up
four hours south)
and my unopened eyes relish the glow
of the rising sun on your butterscotch face
(and closed blinds stack lightlines
on the wall)
Leaning upon my vanilla forearm I
kiss your temple
warm and wispy my butterfly lips
stir and you open your eyes,
azure, as the mountain sky
above organic hills outside of
my window.
