38 Autumns

A tiara woven
from baby's breath -
a luminescent shroud
glitters from behind
sparkling eyes -
Lake Tahoe's color
on September afternoons.
Natural child,
snow daughter,
barefoot goddess of ivied halls -
not Mediterranean,
Eirene, nonetheless.
Long tresses,
amber-honey hued
shimmering right
through closed
lids; outta sight.
Apricot lips part
with seductive grins,
ripely fragrant,
demurely inviting.
Unlit candles
illuminate a dove's nest
on starless nights
as olive branches
caress a frozen
pond's stillness.
"How can
38 autumns
pass without you
listening to even one
Neil Young song,
without me
enjoying
your laughter
or feeling
your smile?
I'll share again
your whispers
soon enough."