In the field
among varied grasses
she waltzed with her palms
brushing the buds bowed in prayer.
The late summer wild flowers
dipped in heated color.
Indian paint brushes
dabbed the sky
on the edges
of towering cumulus.
She lay
down
in embroidery.
They neither toiled
nor spun
around the edges
of her skin.
Sleep planted innocence
once again
and dreams fell on her
like a steady rain.
Beauty forgave
and golden hair
brushed by the breezes
painted the bottomless sky.
Gerald the Writer 
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