Blonde Wednesday
 
 
 

The smell of this day
will always bring you to me,
from depths rumbling with stones,
distances traveled by light alone.

Under a half sun I read to you,
and you settle on a hill in springtime, troubled.

In the telling palm
of your hang one page shrinks
with thoughts of broken snows,
a softness bandaged and a fortnights cold,

the winter streaming off my face.

words © 2000 Brock Bowman
image © 2000 Jon Reischl