In froths of a sky never ever ending,
she throttles like a half—shelled woman
slow to prance in the midst of obedient breeze,
her movement wrapped like a hundred cider vines…
How orange are her nights.
Tipping the light with curves arched and flowing with rain,
she mounts her tinseled limbs on autumnal crest.
The trees, seeds, and candles in her eyes
lightly open the fingertips of near November.
Quick to beat on belly drums, her tresses
of fire melt the liquid stars in one tender rush…
How native and young is she.
After holding the skirt that lifts into a dance in the midst
of patient time, the moon hangs like a violin ready
to strut for a waltz that drifts on appliqués of her arms.
And if every detail of lace in her malleable clay
can be sewn in the light touching her shade,
this she shall bring too. In near November froth.
Susan's Another Poem Not for a Contest