spills its dead scales,
falls to the flowering earth
from a rickety fence.
Nightfall's skinny grin
slides above black pine,
slyly hangs like
an amber scar overhead.
I imagine wrapping
waiting love,
late season passion
around your long legs.
In my waking garden,
the bridal plum
clasps pure bouquets
within spare, gnarled hands.
I see your smile
inside each dream,
smell you against my skin,
hear you sigh
from the incoming surf.
