Insects large and small flit
through the lemony filter of dense canopies.
In hushed whispers we point to a clearing
where a roe fawn nibbles at pine needles.
Soft as cotton clouds brush the crowns of ancient trees,
below a hanging mist clings to blonde foothills.
You pluck a marigold to tuck behind my ear,
a golden hand print left on my thigh.
I wind a garland of fern around your wrist,
close enough to run my fingers through your hair,
carry your scent back home with me.
Deborah Gryka “Turtle Woods”
I apologize ! I found that the comment section was turned off on this. I have gremlins.