Bending down, amber becoming,

the furthest thought of,

combing,

she sends her children to the earth,

the spiced percussive hazel girls,

with eyes like warm chocolate cups.

 

A moth brushes the afternoon,

grey flecked hair from mouth to wing,

and waits on her beating heart,

quiet,

her arms rising

in the tender wind,

where he loves - a moving antique orange.

 

Struck silver,

into the fading light,

on bent knee,

she makes a sound,

“ Do not leave me like this”

but the dusk is long in her throat,

serving a grave wood,

and soon,

all is quiet.