By Lana Bella

The saddle brown
warms your heart but
miserable in your eyes.
Slim wrists give shadows
on an old farmstead,
like fluted sunlight grew
gaunt and pale over
dense treetops.
Where the neighing
ekes out from aviary dark,
you slip with the mares
into their diurnal habit,
rippled with the curiosity
of hay freshness
and moon-washed hills.
Fingertips rise like crescent,
ever moving, ever changing,
marking at the points
where you catch fireflies
between palms.


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