We breathe under green threads
In measured time,
Pulling at our leafy skin,
Veined with sun and water, nourished from land.
While garden poets in potted sheds
Observe rules of life with fingertip eyes, thumbing color,
Watching the ripe earth slowly slip
From our soiled palms.
We do not see the weather lines,
The valley and hills deepen upon close inspection.
Our familiarity blinds us,
Complacent to flaws,
Our dresses, made of citrus rinds and
Lusty flowers, live inside coffee table books
With sweat-ringed jackets and weighted pages.
If opened, you will hear the click, click of our youth,
Photographs of snow drenched mountains
Examining beauty in a reflected sky,
While our vanities, lined with carbon and coal,
Toxic creams to rid us of wrinkles and human stains,
House dirty children,
Tagging walls with fragile limbs,
Leaving our wardrobe scattered about, thinking
How fun it is to play dress up.