The laughter of brook
scrambling over brambles
through the brush of wood in morning –
Cool to touch,
wet,
still,
with dew and dark,
blinking at the sun
As fingertips run over,
it does not splinter.
Its bare flesh against the winter pale
blinding in the dawn-light
Pristine at sunrise
Innocence still kept
harbored in its hollows
I can smell you,
dare not press you to my lips,
a whisper stead of kiss,
a promise –
Wait
’til springtime,
Keep me tender
’til summer heat will dry your skin
and crisp beneath the autumn wither
when Earth takes back
her endless minutes,
slowly
fading
and silence
fills the winter air
with just
the sound of laughter
EJZ 10.14.2015