by Jenifer Cartland
How could she foresee back when her seed was first sown that her hair would hang . . .
Jenifer
Long days of horses and hay dust — sun stains my shoulders, . . .
The sun flitters through branches and leaves to land at your gate — . . .
As the snow falls, the world becomes fuzzy and brings us . . .
There are few things I do not ask of the lake as I lie . . .
A slow night on the river. Dinghies pause for small, last tasks. Sun flattens water, . . .
