By Sara Aranda

White vapor along
the wet ridges of this morning
hide the contours of the sky
as if some white dress
has dragged itself across a puddle,
gray soaked edges, how it folds
and drapes across sandstone buttresses
and thirsty rivers of pine.
Who leads this dress
so slow?

Her cold feet must not feel
the undulating flesh beneath her,
she exhales shadow but her eyes
must be up there with the sun,
the flurry of her cotton
like a parasol,
the inversion
just a calm sea of white.

Does she know that her dress
is catching
on every needle and fern
leaving watery, petrichor thread?
But what does it matter –
the deer and coyote find solace
beneath her cool cloth, and her eyes
are affixed to gilded cloud
as if the sun had fingers
holding gently
the weight of her chin
brushing away, softly
any rain that should fall
from her pale and placid cheek.


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