It was yesterday
the dogwoods flowered
into rust-colored crosses. Kudzu
warped trees on highway medians.
The wind shivered, split my hands.
You were painting. Brown
and green mixed to nothing. Geese
rattled and grazed the hillside. Currants baking
in spring’s heat were silences between us.
Eggs and tempera powder stained your fingertips.
Now, I am dreaming of you
in watercolors: a white smudge
of features becomes an oil lamp at night that,
burning quickly, exhausts itself in quiet.
Fractured light discovers the lines of your palm.
And I am here again, back
turned. The moon is an outline
of crusted edges and long streaks
that blacken toward the early hours.
My hands reach for the memory of your face.
© Christina Salme Ruiz