In sunlight it’s prairie grass
rippled by a wind,
a meadow rill that tumbles past
to yellow’s end.
A whisper of secrets shared
with cheeks and face
or captured in a braid, her hair
crocheted like lace.
At night it spills across her brow,
her frothy mane
bubbling and breathy, somehow
intoxicating.
Someday begging to be kissed,
tasting like whipped cream.
A lover’s moon may pierce the mist
and cast a sheen.
But now she doesn’t need a moon
in her summer dreams,
illumined as she is in shafts
of champagne beams.
