Autumn is green in California;
I remember lying on my belly,
elbows in scratchy grass,
chin propped in palms,
watching innumerable yellow wings
turn a lonely tree to stained glass.
I slid into the backseat;
she was already there and smiled
at me, but kept talking to her friend
in front. I just listened,
excitement swirling in my belly.
Her eyelash is a sickle moon,
black against her cheek,
for a silent wish and soft exhale.
Beneath a warm blanket
too thick to let much light through
we rubbed noses and played at kissing,
blinking softly, lash to skin,
asking, can you feel it?
Winter is too cold for butterflies.
The diamonds are missing from my screen door
and she is walking away where they used to be;
my fingers brown with rust,
my voice, lost among flowers,
looking for something sweet to say.
I took out my old pictures;
every one of her in blue
I placed into a line
and followed, till I lost the sun
and storm clouds loomed,
© William Keller, 2014