on this splintering slab of wood they call a bench
perched above the rolling foothills.
Easing down and breathing in,
the wheatgrass exhales with me,
it's a sun-soaked sigh in early May.

The lake looks bluer than usual, right?
cedar woods lean over tepid waters,
ready to dive into the topaz ripples,
their leafy arms mirrored below
as if painted by Renoir’s lustrous brush.

But even paintings lose their color,
pigments fade and varnish cracks,
What happens when the water dries up?
When the cedar woods take their final dive?
When our Mother’s heart grows weak
and her body and bones become frail?

O how we’ll weep for those topaz waters,
and regret our unquenchable thirst,
how we’ll wish we sat there longer,
filling our lungs with Earth's ambrosia,
wondering if the water has always been this blue.

I like that we are lovers
I like how your pearl opal radiates
above me every night, swallowing me whole
as you swim in your black satin sky,
an impeccable speck among stars,
they applaud you with their twinkling eyes.

I like to sway with the tides you command
I like the way the frothy salt water shimmers
beneath your gaze as you follow me home,
gliding alongside the car since I was a kid
as if to plead, “don’t fall asleep just yet.
You'll wake up without me tomorrow.”

And I did not wake up with you that morning,
you were right and I should have known
the sun would burn my eyes once I opened the blinds,
piercing the air with a violence you've never known,
striking sizzling shining blistering heat beating down

I like that you are always there
even when no one can see
when you're new or blue
and when you dance about in hazy neon
that marks the bar I stumble out from 
just so I can say, "good night, my Moon,
I like that we are lovers."