velvet sinew and morning dew, gingerly rain type-of-weather woman. gentle breeze baby, swish of a skirt, like April 25th. light-jacket vernacular, I read old-English novels—nod in the novelty of your spring stubble going against the grain of my cheekbone. inquisitive eyebrow raises, I dare you to kiss me. tucked away in cottonwood troves, twisted up like pretzels. pawns of the present, we’re in the wake of the weekend, sprawled out on a quilt, where we exchange quips, hip-to-hip, lip-to-lip. guardian of the picnic basket, made of interdigitating birch. you are adroit at apple-bobbing and riverside parlance. tacit tenderness, as we touch, in this mountain wilderness—a realm we revel in, and rightly so. to love is a rite-of-passage. looking up to color, our eyes follow a spectrum of bended light. there we were, that day, under the spell of  Rio Rancho rainbows.

L.W.