She suns on a hill,
all the field becoming
its color, horizon
what she cannot feel
but aligned, lighting
the North Pole northerly.
A green wind winds
shoal to shoal, fallow coast, and spring
piecemealing Spring, sewing leaves
on a white camisole.
She and he and the lake are
mostly water. Look—she won’t
take his shrug as such-and-such
a sign—red pouring, pining for.
A canoe, skinny trees as far
as the eye projects
She and he and water are
the color of whatever holds them.
The leaves are down, the leaves.
The forest blows a window, a waiting-to-be.
She thinks in red-green. He thinks brown, brown, brown.