Our pasts we harvested
like summer leaves turned golden.
Our golden eyes reflecting their leopard
We were lighted by the harsh God of winter:
and the orange fires of evening rest.
Summers, we sea-dove into green waves
and white curls
and ate pepper so hot
the sun melted down our shoulders.
We took long drinks from green glasses
the waterway length of our days,
smelling the distant
scarlet gardens of the shore.
We contained clarity
like glass held
against the changing sky.
We were awake every morning
with orange hope
like heavy-hanging fruit
outside an open window.
-Copyright Kay Winter