by Jenifer Cartland
River cuts fissures through prairie, piles up debris — leaves ruins . . .
Jenifer
Light filters through leaf half on, half off the surface — stained glass . . .
When buds open, pedals unwind, split apart, overlap —
Love does not care if the mirror tells the truth. It simply sits with . . .
Our room cools quickly when the sun leaves each evening. We lean now toward . . .
She sets the glasses with art — height, color, shape — sun rolls off edges . . .
