Beauty is fragile, juicy as the peach cobbler
my grandmother sets on the sill.
The river tumbling south, a homeless bluesman
whose guitar mutters to lovers under an August moon.
The sun rising, a red hand sliding up the dress with
sky blue tights over downy thighs.
Mist, water that holds me when I lie down to watch
a spider stringing diamonds in the air.
…A lover has called to tell me
there is beauty in knowing when to come home.