Wisconsin

Starless, smooth and polished, 
the sky is a wide onyx
set into the rough bronze
of bare trees.
It inhales amber, exhales woodsmoke,
its breath 
sweet and ashy and pungent.

Thick trunks and thin branches 
hover over, 
warming their hands 
against the late autumn chill.

At the tree line, far from me,
you are a silhouette 
on the other side of burning.
You prod the bonfire,
blood orange and amethyst,
until embers fly; tiny red feathers, 
bright and silent.

At the edge of a northern forest, 
I wait, 
knowing that beneath wool and denim
you are the curve of a bicep,
the steady work of lean hips,
a rigid expanse of belly; 
your bare skin 
a warm and distant shelter.

~