Lay me down gently;
I am worn smooth.
A hand can slide across my skin
and not be aware of the striations
from time's window wrapped there.

The umber of my hair
is like shade on sunlight,
and silk to the finger's touch;
slipping through the weave
leaves a song
that passes the bleeding ache of need,
not noticing the cusp of time
in balance there.

I am singing again with the youth
of loud exuberance
and my opera pleases me.
Light the window of my expression
and feel me scratch you with my fingernails
filled with dirt ... damp and determined.

Where are my wings then?

High and mighty there is a place
long past the sky or any crazy bird;
it flies with colors that have no words
and doesn't need explanation.
One day I will know the way there.

Come to me in the twilight,
as the sky descends into the warm earth
and the last flying bat snaps the smallest wing.
Lie down in the tall grass and listen.

The crickets will be stopped
by our rustling breath's loud whirr.
Catch my mouth as you exhale
and lick my fragile lower lip
to still the quiver.

Lay me down gently.