Emerald tuffets of moss,
mud smeared on the sidewalk
where water has made runnels
down the eroding hillside,
trees wearing their winter branches
toward sunset. Sunday, sleepy day.
Look how last light pierces through
the branches the way a pierced
tin lantern shines. And what do I call him,
my guy, my man, whose left eyebrow
persists in hanging down over his eye,
whose hair never grows back evenly
after I cut it? We walk up the hill
together, my love in the red fuzzy jacket
and hiking boots who waits for me
as I semi-lurch along
with my right hip turning to dust
ahead of the rest of me.
