As I sit and write to you, it’s dark.
I’m in a coffeehouse: reggae, earth tones,
teenagers. Night stands up behind
Rincon Hill like an old man rises
from beside his bed after praying.
I think of your delicate throat. There are
Christmas trees for sale outside
in the parking lot. I should mention
that I love their smell, mingled as it is
with car exhaust and tar. I remember
your face, like fog in a morning orchard;
so gentle and still and forming in my mind
until the trees begin to ring.
A hymn of cold stones
may answer from the shrouded hills,
but we will be asleep by then.
Hymn Of Stones by Kyle Kimberlin
is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution
-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.