Day Ten

The look of my love is mythology.
Her eye is low and fierce
and often in shadow.
Her hands around herself,
knees drawn up acutely
For the safety of all involved.
My touch seems to slide
from the slope of her shoulder.
Her elbows are always danger.

When the flowers come out

Her fingers are the frost

laying bare their frailty.

Her lips are entirely absent

And the turn of her cheek

is missing the roll of my thumb.