By Laci Irvin
The sun makes the color turn to honey in her eyes.
Above is the tune of a bird’s cry.
She reaches up to the tree and picks a citrus fruit as if claiming a prize.
The warm air makes the sweet scent rise, just like butterflies when they first learn to fly.
When she speaks, it is all I can hear.
Her voice sings like a spring breeze
That ruffles the hair of a deer
And moves the leaves when it is carried through the trees.
On her delicate fingers, she has cream for skin.
I watch as she peels the fruit, it comes undone like a flower petal.
When she brings it to her lips, the juice runs down her chin.
All I can do is look away when I feel the pink in my cheeks settle.
My yearning is digging my own grave.
I sit here and wonder if she will see a woman like me the same way.
But when he gave her some violets, it made my heart cave.
So, I will love her in silence till my very last day.